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FOURTH EDITION 


gorft 

MACMILLAN AND CO. 
1882 





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2Deliftat(on to t^c jffrstt (Jtiftfon 


TO 

EAWDON LEVETT, EsQ. 

My dear Levett 

I dedicate the volume to you that I may have an 
ojfyportunity of calling myself your friend. 

J. HENRY SHORTEOURE. 


tAESDOwys. EnanASTOX. 
June, 17, ISSQ. 







l^emDtrs of tfje 3L{fe 

OF 

MR. JOHN INGLESANT 

SOMETIME SERVANT TO KING CHARLES t. 

WITH 

AN ACCOUNT OF HIS BIRTH, EDUCATION, AND TRAINING BY 

THE JESUITS 
AND 

’ A PARTICULAR RELATION OF THE SECRET SERVICES 
IN WHICH HE WAS ENGAGED 

ESPECIALLY IN CONNECTION WITH THE LATE 
IRISH REBELLION 

WITH 

SEVERAL OTHER REMARKABLE PASSAGES AND OCCURRENCES, 

ALSO 

A HISTORY OF HIS RELIGIOUS DOUBTS AND EXPERIENCES 

AND OF THE MOLINISTS OR QUIETISTS IN ITALY 
IN WHICH COUNTRY HE RESIDED FOR MANY YEARS 
WITH AN ACCOUNT OF 

THE ELECTION OF THE LATE POPE 

AND 

J£AXY OTHER EVENTS AND AFFAIRS, 




PEEFACE TO THE NEW EDITION. 


Emboldened by the kindness with which this book has been 
received, I venture to risk a few words of introduction to this 
new edition. The generous reception by the Press of a some¬ 
what hazardous venture cannot be too specially or too warmly 
acknowledged by me. 

The book is an attempt at a species of literature which I 
think has not hitherto had justice done to it, but which I 
believe to be capable of great things,—I mean Philosophical 
Romance. There will at once occur to the reader’s mind 
numerous works of fiction of the highest talent, where philo¬ 
sophical ideas have been introduced with surpassing effect. By 
Nathaniel Hawthorne this art was carried to such perfection 
that it is only with diflBculty that we perceive how absolutely 
every character, nay, every word and line, is subordinated to 
the philosophical idea of the book. There is another kind of 
philosophical romance, however, which allows the introduction 
of much which cannot find place in such a work of pure art. 
William Smith’s Thomdale may be taken as in some sense 
indicating what I mean—books where fiction is used expressly 
for the purpose of introducing Philosophy. In such books, 
where philosophy is put first and fiction only second, it is 
evidently permissible to introduce much, and to introduce it in 
a way, which could not be tolerated in pure fiction. There 
have been works of the same character, where a small amount 
of fiction has been introduced, simply for the purpose of relating 
History. The reason, I conceive, of the comparative failure of 
these books has been that the philosophy has so far outweighed 


Vlll 


PREFACK 


the romance, just as in historical fiction, as a rule, the opposite 
error has prevailed, romance so far outweighing history. As in 
the latter case I believe that all that is wanted to constitute an 
historical romance of the highest interest is the recovery of the 
detailed incidents of everyday life, and the awakening of the 
individual need and striving, long since quiet in the gi’ave; so, 
in books Avhere fiction is only used to introduce philosophy, I 
believe that it is not to be expected that human life is to be 
described simply as such. The characters are, so to speak, 
sublimated: they are only introduced for a set purpose, and 
having fulfilled this purpose—were it only to speak a dozen 
Avords—they vanish from the stage. Nor is this so unlike real 
life as may at first appear. Human life, as revealed to most of 
us, does not group itself in stage effect, does not arrange itself 
in elaborate jDlot ; and brilliant dialogue declares the glory of 
the author more frequently than it increases reality of effect. 
If Fiction, therefore, is allowed to select and to condense from 
life, surely Philosophy may do so too. If we may view life 
from an artistic, or dramatic, or picturesque standpoint, using 
such incidents and characters only as meet one or other of these 
requirements, surely we may select incidents and characters 
with a philosophic intent. If we fail in combining real life and 
philosophy with sufficient vraisemhlance^ the failure be upon 
our OAvn head: the attempt is not on that account declared 
impossible or undesirable. To compare such a book with the 
most successful efforts of the greatest masters of modern fiction, 
Avhere everything is sacrificed to sparkling dialogue, to pictur¬ 
esque eftect, to startling plot, is to aim beside the mark. Every¬ 
thing which these great masters have so successfully accom¬ 
plished, it was, fortunately for me, my business carefully to 
avoid. 

I have spoken of Romance as subordinate, but I should be 
sorry to be so misunderstood as to be supposed to undervalue 
this wonderful exertion of the imaginative faculty. In this 
prosaic age the patient toilers among the obscure details of 
scientific research need no apology. They and their followers 


PEEFACE. 


IX 


preen and plume themselves, amid general applause, on their 
aristocratic standpoint, amid a general plebeian throng, thirsting 
for something of human interest, and colour, and life. This 
democratic rabble know by their own experience that it is only 
when these dry details are touched by the enchanter’s wand 
that they strike them with any sense of reality, any likeness to 
beings of their own lineage—that these dry bones assume any 
appearance of life, any attribute of love, or pity, or even of hate. 
It will be the same with Philosophy. For centuries the people 
liave utterly refused to recognize metapliysic as anything but a 
worthless jargon. Let us condescend to this simple, touching 
art taught us by the Provencal singers. Let us try to catch 
something of the skill of the great masters of Eomance, of 
Cervantes and Le Sage, of Goethe and Jean Paul, and let us 
unite to it the most serious thoughts and speculations which 
have stirred mankind. If James Hinton had throwui the 
Mystery of Pain into the form of story, do you not think that 
for one sorrow’ful home wdiich has been lightened by his singular 
genius, there would have been hundreds ?—that in place of one 
sorrowing heart to wdiich his message has brought peace and 
salvation, he might have reckoned thousands 1 

“But,” you say, “it is only a Romance.” 

True. It is only human life in the “ highways and hedges,” 
and in “ the streets and lanes of the city,” with the ceaseless 
throbbing of its quivering heart; it is only daily life from the 
w’orkshop, from the court, from the market, and from the stage; 
it is only kindliness and neighbourhood and child-life, and the 
fresh wind of heaven, and the waste of sea and forest, and the 
sunbreak upon the stainless peaks, and contempt of wu’ong and 
pain and death, and the passionate yearning for the face of God, 
and woman’s tears, and woman’s self-sacrifice and devotion, and 
woman’s love. Yes, it is only a Romance. It is only the ivory 
gates falling back at the fairy touch. It is only the leaden sky 
breaking for a moment above the bowed and weary head, reveal¬ 
ing the fathomless Infinite through the gloom. It is only a 
Romance. 


X 


PREFACE. 


It is a sad fall, doubtless, from such heights as these— 
})eights, however, which none who remember a long roll of 
names, some of them most happily still with us, can think of as 
unapj)roachable—to the book which lies before us. Neverthe¬ 
less this may be said for it, that it is an attempt, and an honest 
one, to blend together these three in one philosophy—the 
memory of the dead—the life of thought—the life of each one 
of us alone. Amid the tangled web of a life’s story I have 
endeavoured to trace some distinct threads—the conflict between 
Culture and Fanaticism—the analysis and character of Sin— 
the subjective influence of the Christian Mythos. I have 
ventured to depict the Cavalier as not invariably a drunken 
binite, and spiritual life and growth as not exclusively the 
possession of Puritans and Ascetics. I feel the responsibility 
of introducing real historical characters and orders of men into a 
work of this kind. My general defence must be that I have 
written nothing which I should not equally have set down in 
an historical or a controversial work. 

J. H. S. 

Lansdowxe, Edgbaston, 

OcioAer 18 , 1881 . 


JOHN INGLESANT, 


INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. 

During my second year at Oxford I became acquainted with a 
Roman Catholic gentleman, the eldest son of a family long resi¬ 
dent on the borders of Shropshire towards Wales. My friend, 
whose name was Fisher, invited me to his home, and early in 
my last long vacation I accepted his invitation. The pictm’esque 
country was seen to great advantage in the lovely summer 
weather. That part of Shropshire partakes somewhat of the 
mountain characteristics of Wales, combined with the more culti¬ 
vated beauties of English rural scenery. The ranges of hills, 
some of which are lofty and precipitous, which intersect the 
comitry, form wide and fertile valleys which are watered by 
pleasant streams. The wide pastures are bordered by extensive 
plantations covering the more gradual ascents, and forming long 
lines along the level summits. AVe had some miles to drive 
even from the small station on the diminutive branch line of 
railway which had slowly conveyed us the last dozen miles or 
so of our journey. At last, just at the foot of one of the long 
straight hills, called Edges in that country, we came upon my 
.friend’s house, seen over a flat champaign of pasture land, sur¬ 
rounded by rows of lofty trees, and backed by fir and other 
wood, reaching to the summit of the hill behind it. It was an 
old and very picturesque house, jumbled together with the addi¬ 
tions of many centuries, from the round tower-like staircase with 
an extinguisher turret, to a handsome addition of two or three 
years ago. Close by was the mutilated tower of a ruined priory, 
the chancel of which is used as the parish church. A handsome 
stone wing of one story, built in the early Gothic style, and not 
long completed, formed the entrance hall and dining-room, with 



2 


JOHN inglesant; 


[INTROD. 


a wide staircase at the back. The hall was profusely hung with 
old landscapes and family portraits. After a short introduction 
to my friend’s family, we were soon assembled in the newly 
finished dining-room, with its stone walls and magnificent over¬ 
hanging Gothic fireplace. The dinner party consisted of my 
friend’s father and mother, his two sisters, and a Eoman Catholic 
clergyman, the family chaplain and priest of a neighbouring 
chapel which Mr. Fisher had erected and endowed. The room 
was hung entirely with portraits, several of them being ecclesi¬ 
astics in dilferent religious costumes, contrasting, to my eyes, 
strangely with the gay cavaliers and the beautiful ladies of the 
Stuarts’ Court, and the not less elaborately dressed portraits of 
the last century, and with thos of my host and hostess in the 
costume of the Regency. I w^as struck with the portrait which 
happened to be opposite me, of a young man with a tonsured 
head, in 'svhat appeared to me to be a very simple monk’s dress, 
and I asked the Priest, a beautiful and mild-looking old man, 
whom it was intended to represent. 

“A singular story is attached to that portrait,” he said, 
“ which, it may surprise you to learn, is not that of a—a mem¬ 
ber of our communion. It is the portrait of a young English¬ 
man named Inglesant, a servant of King Charles the First, who 
was very closely connected with the Roman Catholics of that 
day, especially abroad, and was employed in some secret negotia¬ 
tions between the King and tlie Catholic gentry; but the chief 
interest connected with his story consists in some very remark¬ 
able incidents which took place abroad, connected with the 
murderer of his only brother—incidents which exhibit this 
young man’s character in a noble and attractive light. lie is 
connected with Mr. Fisher’s family solely through the relations 
of his brother’s wife, but, singularly, he is buried not far from 
here, across the meadows. In the latter years of his life he pur¬ 
chased an estate in this neighbourhood, though it was not his 
native country, and founded an almshouse, or rather hospital 
for lunatics, in the chapel in which his tomb is still standing. 
That portrait, in which he appears in the dress of a novice,” 
he continued, turning to the one before me, “was taken in 
Rome, when he was residing at the English college, where he 
certainly was receive<l, as he appears to have been generally 
when abroad, into full communion with us. As a contrast to 
it, I will show you another in the drawing-room, by Vandyke, 


A ROMANCE. 


3 


CHAP.] 

•which, thongh it really was intended for his brother, yet may 
equally well represent himself, as, at that period, the two brothers 
are said to have been so exactly alike that they could not be 
known apart. On his tomb at Monk’s Lydiard, as you may see 
if you incline to take the trouble to walk so far—and it is a 
pleasing walk—he is represented in his gown of bachelor of civil 
law, a degree which he received at Oxford during the civil war, 
and he is there also represented with tonsured head. I have 
often thought,” continued the Priest, musingly, “ of arranging a 
considerable collection of papers referring to this gentleman’s 
story, which is at present in the library; or at least of writing 
out a plain statement of the facts; but it would be better done, 
perhaps, by a layman. I have the authority of these young 
ladies,” he continued, Avith a smile, turning to the Miss Fishers, 
“that the story is a more entertaining and even exciting one 
than the sensational novels of the day, of which, I need not say, 
I am not a judge.” 

The young ladies confirmed this as far as their knowledge 
went; but they had heard only fragments of the story, and Avere 
urgent Avith the clergyman to set about the task. He, however, 
replied to their entreaties only by a shake of the head; and the 
ladies soon after left the room. 

When Ave Avent into the draAving-room, I was eager to see 
the Vandyke, and Avas shoAvn a magnificent picture at one end 
of the room, representing a singularly handsome young man, in 
a gorgeous satin court dress of the reign of Charles the First, 
Avhose long hair and profusion of lace and ornament Avould prob¬ 
ably, in the Avork of another artist, liave produced an unpleasing 
impression, but, softened by the peculiar genius of Vandyke, tlie 
picture possessed that combination of splendour and pathos Avhich 
Ave are in the habit of associating only with his paintings. His 
satin shoes and silk stockings contrasted curiously Avith the grass 
on Avhich the cavalier stood, and the sylvan scene around him; 
and still more so Avith his dogs and tAvo horses, Avhich Avere held 
at some little distance by a page. His hice Avas high and noble, 
but on closely comparing it—as I did several times—Avith that 
of the Monk in the dining-room, I arrived at the conclusion that 
either the likeness betAveen the brothers Avas exaggerated, or the 
expression of the survivor must liaA^e altered greatly in after 
years; for no difference in dress, great as Avas the contrast 
betAveeu the coarse serge of the novice and the satin of the 


4 JOHN INGLESANT; [introd. 

cavalier, and between the close-cropped tonsured head and the 
flowing love locks, would account for the greater strength and 
resolve of the portrait in the dining-room, combined, strangely, 
as this expression was, with a slightly wild and abstracted look, 
indicating either religious enthusiasm, or perhaps unsettlement 
of the reason within; this latter expression being totally want¬ 
ing in the face of the cavalier. 

The next day was Sunday, and I opened my window on a 
lovely prospect of lawn and water, with the fir woods sweeping 
up the hill-sides beyond. Walking out in the avenue when I 
was dressed, I met the family returning from low mass at the 
Chapel. I attended high mass with them at eleven o’clock. 
The Chapel was picturesquely built higher up in the wood tlian 
the house. It had a light and graceful interior, and the cover¬ 
ings of the altar were delicate and white. The exquisite, 
plaintive music, the pale glimmer of the tapers in the morning 
sunlight, the soothing perfume of the incense, the sense of 
pathetic pleading and of mysterious aw^e, as if of the possibility 
of a Divine Presence, produced its effect on me, as it does, I 
imagine, on most educated Churchmen; but this effect failed 
in convincing me (then, as at other times) that there was more 
under that gorgeous ceremonial than may be found under the 
simpler Anglican ritual of the Blessed Sacrament. After church, 
my friend, who had some engagement with the Priest, accepted 
my assurance that I was fond of solitary walks; and I set off 
alone on my quest of the tomb of John Inglesant. 

I followed a footpath which led direct from the ruined 
Church near the house, across the small park-like enclosure, 
into the flat meadows beyond. The shadows of the great trees 
lay on the grass, the wnld roses and honeysuckle covered the 
hedges, a thousand butterflies fluttered over the fields. That 
Sunday stillness which is, possibly, but the echo of our own 
hearts, but which we fancy marks the day, especially in the 
country, soothed the sense. The service in the morning had 
not supplied the sacrament to me, but it had been far from 
being without the sense of worship; and the quiet country in 
the lovely summer weather, in connection with it, seemed to 
me then, as often, the nearest foretaste we can gain of ^hat 
the blissfid life will be. As I went on, the distant murmur of 
Chinch bells came across the meadows, and following a foot¬ 
path for a couple of miles, I came to the Hospital er Almshouse, 


CHAP.] 


A ROMANCE. 


5 


standing amid rows of elms, and having a small village attached 
to it, built probably since its erection. The bells which I had 
heard, and which ceased a little before I reached the place, 
were in a curious turret or cupola attached to the Chapel, 
which formed one side of the court. The buildings were of 
red brick, faced with stone, in the latest style of the Stuart 
architectm’e. The door of the Chapel was wide open, and I 
entered and dropped into a seat just as the Psalms began. The 
room was fitted in a style exactly corresponding to the outside; 
a circular recess at the upper end took the place of chancel, 
lighted with three windows, which were filled with innumerable 
small panes of glass. The altar was richly draped; and on it, 
besides vases of flowers, were two massive candlesticks of an 
antique pattern, and an old painting, apparently of the Virgin 
and Child. The lower walls of the chancel and of the whole 
Chapel were panelled, and the whole had a flat ceiling of 
panelled oak, painted in the centre with a sun with rays. 
Partly in the chancel, and partly in the Chapel, the surpliced 
choir was accommodated in stalls or pews, and the organ and 
pulpit, in elaborate carved mahogany, completed the interior. 
There was a good congregation : and from this, and from many 
tablets on the walls, I gathered that the Chapel was used by 
the neighbourhood as probably being nearer than the Parish 
Churches. The soft afternoon light filled the place, gilding the 
old brasswork, and lighting up the dark carving and the sombre 
narrow pews. The music was of a very high class, deliciously 
sung, and I found afterwards that there was an endowment 
especially for the choir, and that the chaplains were required to 
be musical. The service bore comparison favourably with the 
morning’s mass, and a short sermon followed. When all was 
over, and the people were gone out into the sunshine, I began 
to look for the tomb I had come to see, and the chaplain, hav> 
ing come out of the vestry, and seeming to expect it, I went 
up and spoke to him. I told him I had walked from Lydiard 
my friend’s house—to see the tomb of the founder, to which 
I had been directed by the Roman Catholic gentleman who 
resided there. He was well acquainted with Father Arnold, 
he told me, and took me at once to the tomb, which was in a 
recess by the altar, screened from view by the choir seats. 
There he lay, sure enough, just as the Priest had told me, 
carved from licad to foot in alabaster, in his gown of bachelor 



6 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[INTROD. 


of civil law, and his tonsured head. The sculptor had under¬ 
stood his work; the face was life-like, and the likeness to the 
portrait was quite perceptible. The inscription was curious— 
“sub marmore isto Johannes Inglesant, Peccator, usque ad 
judicium latet, expectans revelationem filiorum Dei.” 

I told the Chaplain what Father Arnold had told me of this 
man’s story, and of the materials that existed for writing it. 
He had heard of them too, and even examined them. 

“ The Priest will never write it,” he said. 

“Why do not you?” I asked. 

He laughed. “ I am a musician,” he said, “ not an author. 
You seem more interested in it than most people; you had 
better do it.” 

As I came back across the fields I pondered over this advice; 
and after dinner I asked the Priest the story. He told me the 
outline, and the next morning took me into-the library, and 
showed me the papers. 

The library at Lydiard is a very curious room below the 
level of the ground, and in the oldest part of the house. It 
adjoins the tower with the extinguisher turret, by which there 
is communication with the bed chambers, and- with the leads 
and garrets at the top of the house. The room was large, and 
had several closets besides a smaller room beyond, which had 
no visible communication except into the library, but the Priest 
showed me a secret doorway and staircase, which, he said, 
descended into the cellars. Both these rooms and the closets 
were crammed with books, the accumulation of four hundred 
years—most of them first editions, and clean as when they came 
from the binder, but browned and mellowed with age. Early 
works of the German press, a Caxton, the scarce literature of 
the sixteenth century—all the books which had once been 
fashionable—Cornelius Agrippa, and Cardan, two or three 
editions of the Euphues, folios of Shakespeare and the di'ama- 
tists, and choice editions of the literature of the seventeenth 
and eighteenth centimes, down to our own day. Besides this 
general literature, there was a large collection of Eomau Catholic 
works and pamphlets, many privately printed at home or 
published abroad; biographies of Seminary Priests who had 
suftered death in England, reports of trials, private' instructions, 
and even volumes of private letters, for Lydiard had always 
been a secure hiding-place for the hunted priests, and more than 


CHAP.] 


A ROaiANCE. 


7 


one had died there, leaving all his papers in the library. No 
fitter place could exist in which to attempt the task I had 
already determined to undertake, and I obtained leave of the 
Priest, promising to make nothing public without his approval. 
I had the whole vacation before me; too idle and desultory to 
read for honours, I had always been fond of literature and the 
classics, and was safe for my degree, and I gave myself up unre¬ 
servedly to my task. I have endeavoured, as Father Arnold 
said, to tell a plain story. I have no pretensions to dramatic 
talent, and I deprecate the reader’s criticism. If I have caught 
anything of the religious and social tone of the seventeenth 
century, I am more than content. 

GEOFFREY MONK, MA. 





JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap. I. 


CHAPTER 1. 

When Cromwell, Earl of Essex, was in the zenith of his power, 
and was engaged in completing the suppression of the smaller 
monasteries before commencing on the greater,—he had in his 
service a young gentleman named Richard Inglesant, the son of 
a knight, and descended from a knightly family, originally of 
Flanders, who had come into England with the Princess of 
Hainault. This young man \vas of an attractive person, a 
scholar, active and useful in many ways, and therefore a favourite 
with his master. One evening in the end of June 1537, he 
was sent for by Cromwell into the great gallery of his magnifi¬ 
cent house in Throgmorton Street, where he found his master 
walking up and down in thought. 

“ You must be ready to depart at once, Richard,” he said, 
“into Wiltshire. I have in this commission appointed you 
Visitor of the Priory of Westacre, six miles south of Malmsbury, 
on the way into Somereet, which they call the Priory in the 
Wood. The King’s Grace is resolved on the suppression of this 
house, as a priory; but note very carefully what I tell you;— 
it will be for yom* guidance. Great interest has been made to 
his Grace’s Highness on behalf of this house, both by many of 
the gentry dwelling thereabout, and also by the common people 
by the mouth of the Mayor of Malmsbury. They say the 
house is Avithout any slander or evil fame; that it stands in a 
waste ground, very solitary, keeping such hospitality, that 
except with singular good management it could not be main¬ 
tained though it had half as much land again as it has, such a 
number of the poor inhabitants nigh thereunto are daily relieved. 
The Prior is a right honest man, and well beloved of all the 
inhabitants therewith adjoining, having Avith him, in the house, 
eight religious persons, being priests of right good conversation, 
and living religiously. They spend their time in writing books 


CHAP. I.] 


A ROMANCE. 


9 


wit.h a very fair hand, in making garments for the poor people, 
in printing or graving. Now the prayer of these people is that 
the King’s Highness shall translate this priory into a college, 
and so continue as many of the priests as the lands will maintain 
for the benefit of the neighbours; and the King is much inclined 
to do this. Now, on the other hand, this house has a proper 
lodging, where the Prior lay, with a fair garden and an orchard, 
very meet to be bestowed on some friend of mine, and some 
faithful servant of the King’s Grace. There is no small number 
of acres ready sown with wheat, the tilthes ordered for barley; 
the house and grounds are well furnished with plate, stuff, corn, 
cattle ; the woods well saved, and the hedgerows full of timber, 
as though the Prior had looked for no alteration of his house. 
I had set mine hand on this house for a friend of mine, but the 
King’s Grace is determined upon this :—if the Prior will sur¬ 
render the house in a discreet and frank manner, and will more¬ 
over, on Sunday next, which is the Feast of the most Precious 
Blood, after mass, to which all the neighbouring people shall 
have been called, in his sermon, make mention of the King’s 
title of Supreme Head, and submit himself wholly, in all matters 
spiritual, to the King’s Grace, under Christ, the house shall be 
continued as a college, and no man therein disturbed, and not 
so much as an ounce of plate taken, that they may pray God 
Almighty to preserve the King’s Grace with His blessed pleasure. 
Now I send you on this mission because, if things go as I think 
they may, I mean this house for you; and there is so much 
clamour about this business that I will have no more hands in 
it than I can help. Take two or three of the men with you 
whom you can trust; but see you fail not in one jot in the 
course you take with the Prior, for should it come to the King’s 
ears that you had deceived the Prior—and it surely wmuld so 
come to his Grace—your head would not be your own for an 
hour, and I should doubt, even, of my own favour with the 
King.” 

Eichard Inglesant was on horseback before daylight the 
next morning; and riding by easy stages, arrived at Malmsbury 
at last, and slept a night there, making inquiries about the w^ay 
to Westacre. At Malmsbury, and at all the villages where he 
stopped, he heard nothing but what agreed with what Croni’well 
had told him; and what he heard seemed to make him loiter 
still more, for he slept at Malmsbury a second night, and then 




10 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap. I. 


did not go forward to Westacre till noonday. In the middle of 
the summer afternoon he crossed the brow of the hilly common, 
and saw the roofs of the Priory beneath him surrounded by its 
woods. The country all about lay peaceful in the soft, mellow 
sunlight; wide slopes of wood, intermixed with shining water, 
and the quiet russet downs stretching beyond. Richard had 
sent on a man the day before to warn the Prior, who had been 
expecting his coming all day. The house stood w'ith a little 
walled court in front of it, and a gate-house; and consisted of 
three buildings—a chapel, a large hall, and anotlier building con 
taining the Prior’s parlour and other rooms on the ground floor, 
and a long gallery or dormitory above, out of w^hich opened other 
chambers ; the kitchens and stables were near the latter build¬ 
ing, on the right side of the court. The Prior received Ingle- 
sant with deference, and took him over the house and gardens, 
pointing out the well-stocked fish-ponds and other conveniences, 
with no apparent wush of concealing anything. Richard was 
astonished at the number of books, not only in the book-room, 
but also in the Prior’s own chamber; these latter the Prior 
seemed anxious he should not examine. As far as Richard could 
see, they were, many of them, chemical and magical books. He 
supped with the Prior in hall, with the rest of the household, 
and retired with him to the parlour afterwards, 'where cakes and 
spiced wine Avere served to them, and they remained long to¬ 
gether. Inglesant delivered his commission fairly to his host, 
dwelling, again and again, on every particular, while the Prior sat 
silent or made but short or inconclusive replies. At last Ingle¬ 
sant betook himself to rest in the guest-chamber, a room hung 
■with arras, opening from the gallery where the monks slept, 
towards the west; one of his servants slept also in the dormi¬ 
tory near his door. The Prior’s care had ordered a fire of Avood 
on the great hearth that lighted up the carved bed and the 
hunting scene upon the Avails. He lay long and could not sleep. 
All night long, at intervals, came the sound of chanting along 
the great hall and up the stairs into the dormitory, as the 
monks sung the service of matins, lauds, and prime. His mind 
Avas ill at ease. A scholar, and brought up from boyhood at 
the Court, he had httle sympathy Avith the iieAv doctrines, and 
held the simple and illiterate perple who mostly followed them 
in small- esteem. He Avas strongly influenced by that mysteri¬ 
ous awe Avhich tlie Romish system inspires in the most careless, 


CHAP. I.] 


A ROMANCE. 


11 


even when it is not strong enough to influence their lives. The 
mission he had undertaken, and the probable destruction of this 
religious house, and the expulsion of its inmates for his benefit, 
frightened him, and threatened him with unknown penalties and 
terrors hereafter which he dared not face. He lay listlessly on 
his bed listening to the summer wind, and when at last he fell 
asleep, it was but a light fitful slumber, out of which he woke 
ever and anon to hear the distant chanting of the monks, and 
see by the flickering fire-light the great hounds coursing each 
other over the walls of his room. 

In the morning he heard mass in the Chapel, after which the 
Prior sent a message to explain his absence, informing him that 
he was gone to Malmsbury to consult with his friends there how 
he might best serve the King’s Grace. All that morning Richard 
Inglesant sat in the hall receiving the evidence of all who came 
before him (of whom there was no lack)—of the neighbours, 
gentry and country people. He evidently examined them with 
great care and acuteness, noting down every answer in a fair 
clerkly hand, exactly as he received it, neither extenuating any¬ 
thing nor adding the least word. He also in the same report 
kept an exact account of how he passed his time while at West- 
acre. There appears—as Cromwell had said—not to have been 
the least breath of scandal against the Prior or any of the priests 
in the house. The only report at all injurious to the character 
of the Prior seems to have been an opinion—oftentimes hinted 
at by the witnesses—that he was addicted to the study of chem¬ 
istry and magic; that, besides his occult books, he had in his 
closet in his chamber a complete chemical apjDaratus "with which 
he practised alchemy, and was even said to be in possession of 
the Elixir of Life. These reports Inglesant does not appear to 
have paid much attention to, probably regarding them as not 
necessarily coming within the limits of his commission; and, 
indeed, there is evidence of his having acted with the most 
exact fairness throughout the investigation, more than once put¬ 
ting questions to the witness, evidently for the purpose of correct¬ 
ing misapprehensions which told against the Prior. After dinner 
he rode out to the downs to a gentleman who had courteously 
sent him word that he was coursing with greyhounds : he, how¬ 
ever, was not absent from the Priory long, declining the gentle¬ 
man’s invitation to supper.. After he had supped he spent the 
rest of the evening in his own chamber, reading what he calls 




12 


JOHN inglesant; 


[chap. I. 


“Ovidii Nasonis metamorphoseos libri moralizati,” an edition 
of which, printed at Leipsic in 1510, he.had found in the Prior’s 
room. 

The next forenoon he spent in the same manner as the last, 
the people flocking in voluntarily to give their evidence in favour 
of the house, A little after noon the Prior came back, travel¬ 
ling on foot and alone. As he came along he was thinking of 
the words of the gospel which promise great things to him who 
gives up houses and land for the Lord’s sake. 

When he reached the brow of the hill from which he could 
see the three red-tiled roofs of the Priory peeping out from 
among the trees, with the gardens and the green meadows, and 
the cattle seen here and there, he stood long to gaze. The air was 
soft and yet fresh, and the woods stretching up the rising-grounds 
about the Priory were wavering and shimmering all over with 
their myriad rustling leaves, instinct with life and beauty both 
to the ear and eye; a perpetual change from light to shadow, 
from the flight of the fleecy clouds, would have made the land¬ 
scape dazzling but for the gveen on which the eye dwelt with a 
sense of rest to the wearied and excited brain. A gentle sound 
and murmur, as of happy and contented beings, made itself softly 
felt rather than heard, through the noontide air. “ Omnes qui 
relinquufit patrem, domes, uxorem,” said the Prior; but his 
€yes were so dim that he stumbled as he went on down the hill. 

Kichard Inglesant and he were some time alone together 
that evening. Whether the Prior prepared him at all for the 
course he had determined to piu'sue, does not appear, but cer¬ 
tainly he did not, to any great extent. 

The next day was Sunday, being the “ Feast of the most 
Precious Blood ”—a Sunday long remembered in that country 
side. The people, for a score of miles round, thronged to hear 
the Prior’s sermon. The Mayor of Malmsbury was there; but 
the clergy of the Abbey, it was noticed, w^ere not present. The 
little Chapel would not hold a tithe of the people—indeed few' 
more than the gentry and their ladies, who came in great 
iiuml)ers, w’ere allow*ed admission. Richard Inglesant and tlio 
Sherilf had Fald-stools in front of the altar, where they re¬ 
mained kneeling the whole of mass. The doors and window's 
of the Chapel were opened, that the people outside might assist 
at the celebration. They sto M as thick as they could be packed 
in the little courtyard, and up the sloping fields around the Prioryf 


CHAP. I.] 


A ROMANCE. 


13 


listening in silence to the music of the mass; and at the sound 
of the bell the whole multitude fell on their knees as one man, 
remaining so for several minutes. Mass being over, the Prior 
came in procession from the Chapel to where a small wooden 
pulpit had been set up just outside the gate-house, in front of 
which seats were placed for the Sheriff and Inglesant, and the 
chief gentry. The silence was greater than ever, when the 
Prior, who had changed the gorgeous vestments in which he had 
celebrated mass, and appeared only as a simple monk, ascended 
the pulpit and began to preach. The Prior was a gi'eat preacher; 
a small and quiet man enough to look at, when he entered the 
pulpit he was transfigured. His form grew dignified, his face 
lighted up with enthusiasm, and his voice, even in the open air, 
was full and clear, and possessed that magical property of reach¬ 
ing the hearts of all who heard him, now melted into tenderness, 
and now raised to firm resolve. He began with the text that 
had haimted his memory the day before, and the first part of 
his sermon was sim[)ly an earnest and eloquent exhortation to 
follow Christ in preference to anything beside on earth. Then, 
warming in his subject, he answered the question (speaking that 
magnificent English tongue that even now rings in the pages of 
Foxe), Where was Christ ? and urging the peojde to follow Him 
as He manifested Himself in the Church, and especially in the 
sacrament of the altar. Then suddenly throwing aside all re¬ 
serve, and with a rapidity of utterance and a torrent of elo¬ 
quence that carried his hearers with him, he rushed into the 
question of the day, brought face to face the opposing powders 
of the State and Christ, hurled defiance at the former, and 
w^hile not absolutely naming the King or his Council, denounced 
his policy in the plainest words. Then, amid the swaying of the 
excited crowd, and a half-stifled cry and murmur, he suddenly 
dropped his voice, pronounced the formal benediction, and shrank 
back, to all appearance, into the quiet, timid monk. 

It is needless to describe the excitement and astonishment 
of the crowd. The Prior and his procession with difficulty 
returned to the Chapel through the press. The Sheriff and 
Richard Inglesant, who with the other leading gentry had 
affected perfect unconsciousness that anything unusual w^as taking 
place, entered the hall of the Priory, and the Prior had a mess¬ 
age sent into the sacristy that the King’s commissioner desired 
to see him immediately in the parlour. 




14 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap. I. 


When the Pri:)r entered, Inglesant was standing upon the 
hearth; he was p?de, and his manner was excited and even fierce. 

“ You are a bold man, master Prior,” he said almost before 
the other was in the room; “ do you know that you have this 
day banished yourself and all your fellowship into the world 
without shelter and without help 1 Nay, I know not but the 
King’s Grace may have you up to answer for this day with your 
life ! Do you know this V’ 

The Prior looked him steadily in the face, but he was deadly 
pale, and his manner was humble and cowed. 

“Yes, I know it,” he said. 

“Well,” continued the other still more excitedly, “I call 
you to witness, master Prior, as I shall before the throne of God 
Almighty, that I have neither hand nor part in this day’s work; 
that you have brought this evil upon yoiuself by your own deed 
and choice, by no want of warning and no suddenness on my 
part, but by your own madness alone.” 

“ It is very true,” said the Prior. 

“I must to horse,” said Inglesant, scarcely heeding him, 
“and ride post to my lord. It is as much as my head is worth 
should any rumoiu of this day’s business reach the King’s Grace 
by any other tongue than mine. You will stay here under the 
Sheriffs guard; but I fear you will too soon hear what a tragedy 
this day’s play has been for you! God have you in His keep¬ 
ing, Prior! for you have jDut yourself out of all hope of mercy 
from the King’s Grace.” 

He might have said more, but an alarming noise made him 
hasten into the hall. The most lawless and poorest of the 
people—of whom munbers had mingled in the crowd in the 
hope of spoil, taking for granted that the house was dissolved 
—had made an attack upon the Chapel and the Prior’s lodging, 
and it was some time before the Sheriff, assisted by Inglesant 
and the other gentlemen and their servants, all of whom were 
armed, could restore order. When this was done, and th< 
peaceable people and women reassured, Inglesant’s horses were 
brought out, and he mounted and rode oft’ through the dispers¬ 
ing but still excited and lawless crowds, leaving the Priory to 
a strong guard of the Sheriff’s men. As he rode up the hill 
—the people shrinking back to let him pass—he muttered, 
bitterly: 

“ A fine piece of work we have set our hands to, with all 


CHAP. I.] 


A ROMANCE. 


15 


the rascal people of the country to aid. And why should not 
the Poverty get some of the droppings, when the Gentry cuts 
the purse 

Travelling at a very different pace from that at whi(;h he 
had ridden from London, he reached the city the next night, 
and went at once to the Lord Cromwell, who, the next morning, 
took him to the King, to whom he gave a full account of what 
had occiured. Plenry—who appears to have been induced to 
form his previous intention by the influence of a gentleman at 
Com’t who probably had his private expectations with regard to 
the futime possession of the Priory—seems to have really cared 
little about the matter. He was, however, highly incensed at 
the Prior’s sermon, and made no difficulty of immediately grant¬ 
ing the Priory to Richard Inglesaiit. A pursuivant was sent 
down to bring the Prior up to London to be examined before 
the Council, but it does not appear that he ever was examined. 
Probably Inglesant exerted his influence with Cromwell in his 
behalf, for Cromwell examined him himself, and appears to have 
informed the King that he was harmless and mad. At any rate, 
he ’was set at liberty; and his troubles appear to have actually 
affected his reason, for he is said to have returned to the neigh¬ 
bourhood of Malmsbury, and to have wandered about the Priory 
at nights. The other inmates of the Priory had been dispersed, 
and the house taken possession of by Inglesant’s servants; but 
he himself seems to have taken but little pleasure in his new 
possession, for it was more than a year before he visited it; and 
•when he did so, events occurred which increased his dislike to 
the place. 

It was late in October when his visit took place, and the 
weather was wild and stormy. He slept in the Prior’s guest- 
chamber, which was in the same state as when he had occupied 
it before. The wind moaned in the trees, and swept over the 
roofs and among the chimneys of the old house. In the early 
part of the night he had a terrible dream, or what was rather 
partly a dream and partly a feverish sense of the objects around 
him. He thought he was lying in the bed in the room where 
he really was, and could not sleep; a fierce contention of the 
elements and of some powers more fearful than the elements 
seemed going on outside. The room became hateful to him, 
with its dark, hearse-like bed and the strange figures on the 
tapestry, which seemed to his bewildered fancy to course each 





16 


JOHN inglesant; 


[chap. I. 


other over the walls with a rapidity and a fantastic motion 
which made his senses reel. He thought that, unable to remain 
where he was, he rose and went out into the old dormitor}^, now 
silent and deserted, from one end of which he could look into 
the courtyard, while from the other he could see a dark mass of 
woodland, and a lurid distant sky. On this side all was quiet; 
but the courtyard seemed astir. The moon shone with the 
briglitness of day on the mouldering, ivy-grown walls, and on 
the round pebble stones between which the long grass was 
growing all over the court. The wind swept fiercely across it, 
and splashes of rain, every now and then, made streaks in the 
moonlight like fire; strange voices cried to him in an unknown 
language, and undistinguished forms seemed passing to and fro. 
The Chapel was all alight, and low and mournful music pro¬ 
ceeded from it, as for the dead. Fascinated with terror, he 
left the gallery and descended into the court. An irresistible 
impulse led him to the Chapel, which was open, and he went 
in. As he did so, voices and strange forms seemed to rush for¬ 
ward to enter with him, and an overwhelming horror took pos¬ 
session of him. Inside, the Chapel was hung with black; 
cowled forms filled the stalls, and chanted, with hollow, shadowy 
voices, a dirge for the departed. A hooded and black form 
stood before the altar, celebrating the mass. The altar w^as 
alight with tapers, and torches were borne by sable attendants 
on either side of the choir. The ghostly forms that entered 
with him now thronged about him in the form and habit of 
living men. Voices called from without, and were answered 
from within the Chapel; rushing sounds filled the air as though 
the trees were being torn up, and the Chapel and house rocked. 
There was no coffin nor pall, nor any sign of mourning; and it 
seemed to Inglesant that he was present at the celebration of 
some obyte, or anniversary of the death of one long departed, 
over whom a wild and ghostly lamentation was made by beings 
no longer of the earth. An inexpressible dread and sorrow lay 
upon him—an overwhelming dread, as if the final Reckoning 
WTre near at hand, and all hope taken away—sorrow, as though 
all wdiom he had ever loved and knowm lay before him in death, 
with the solemn dirge and placebo said over them by the ghostly 
choir. The strain was too intense and painful to be borne, and 
with a cry, he awoke. 

Utterly incapable ol remaining where he was, he dressed, 


CHAP. I.] 


A ROSIANCE. 


17 


and went out into the gallery, and down into the courtyard. 
The court was lighted by the moonlight as brightly as in his 
dream for one moment, and then was totally dark from the 
passing clouds flitting over the moon. All was calm and still. 
A small door in the corner of the court near the Chapel was 
open, and, surprised at this, Inglesant crossed over and passed 
through it. It led into the graveyard of the Priory outside the 
Chapel, where the monks and some of the country people had 
been used to bmy their dead. It wiis walled round, but the 
wall at the farther side was old and ruinous, and had partly 
fallen down. As Inglesant reached the postern door, the moon 
shone out brightly, and he saw, between himself and the ruined 
wall, a wasted and cowled figure slowly traversing the rows of 
graves. For a moment he felt a terror equal to that of his 
dream, but the next the thought of the Prior flashed upon his 
mind, and he crossed the graveyard and followed silently in the 
track of the figure. The ghostly form reached the opposite 
wall, and commenced, with some substance that shone like lire, 
to draw magic figures upon the stones of one of its most perfect 
parts. Placing himself in a position evidently indicated by 
these geometrical figures, he carefully observed the precise spot 
where his shadow was projected on the wall before him by the 
moonlight, and going to this spot, he carefully loosened and 
removed a stone. By this time Inglesant was close upon him, 
and saw him take from within the wall an antique glass or 
vial, of a singular and occult shape. As he raised it, some 
slight motion the other made caused him to biurn roimd, and at 
the sight of Inglesant he dropped the magic glass upon the 
stone he had removed, and shattered it to pieces. When he 
saw what had happened, the strange and weird creature threw . 
his arms above his head, and with a piercing cry that rang 
again and again through the chill night air, fell backwards 
senseless, and lay in the pale moonlight white and still among 
the graves. Inglesant removed him into the house, and he was 
restored to sense, but scarcely to reason. He lived for more 
than five years, never leaving the Priory, where Inglesant 
directed that all his wants should be attended to, wandering 
about the gardens, and sometimes poring over his old books, 
which still remained upon his shelves. Inglesant never saw 
him again; but when he died the old man sent him his bless¬ 
ing, and was buried before the altar in the Chapel, where ail 

c ^ 




18 


JOHN inglesant; 


[rHAP. II. 


the Priors of the house had lain before him ; he on ■whom the 
evil days, wliich they perhaps had merited but had escaped, 
had fallen, and had crushed. 


CHAPTER II. 

Richakd Inglesant never, till the last few years of his life, 
lived at Westacre, and visited it very seldom. He was a 
successful courtier ; and at Cromwell’s fall became a servant of 
the King. He married, and lived entirely at the Court. He 
was all his life a Catliolic at heart, but conformed outwardly to 
the religion of the hour. He had one son, named after him, 
who was educated at Oxford, and intended for the bar, but his 
father left him so considerable a fortune that he was independ¬ 
ent of any profession. That Richard Inglesant left no more 
than he did, shows that he adhered through life to the line of 
conduct we have seen him pursue at Westacre—conduct which 
probably satisfied his conscience as being rigidly exact and 
honest. On Henry’s death he still retained one of his places 
about the Court; but on King Edward’s death, being a partisan 
of Queen Mary’s and a hearty conformer, he became a great 
favourite, and held a lucrative post. He visited Westacre more 
frequently, and built a stately range of buildings on one side of 
the coiu’t, w’here formerly the old stables and kitchen were, no 
doubt for his son’s sake, enlarging the garden on that side to 
form a terrace in front of the new rooms. At Queen Mary’s 
accession service w^as recommenced in the Prior’s Chapel, which 
was repaired and fitted up afresh, and a regular priest appointed 
to serve it. Inglesant’s name does not appear in the trials of 
the Protestants, a circumstance which makes it appear probable 
that he was true to the temporizing policy of his youth, and 
kept his zeal under good control. When Elizabeth came to the 
throne, the service in the Chapel underwent some modification, 
King Edward’s Service Book being used. The service then 
had been found so useful to the neighbours that the parish 
petitioned for its continuance, and it was legally settled as a 
chapelry. The priest confcrmed to the new order of things, 
and Richard Inglesant—who at that time resided constantly 
at Westacre—attended the service regularly. He remained a 


CHAP. II.] 


A ROMANCE. 


19 


Catholic, but during the first seven years of Queen Elizabeth’s 
reign, which were all he lived to see, the Catholics generally 
came to their Parish Churches until forbidden by the Pope’s 
Bull. It remained, therefore, for his son, who was eighteen 
years of age at his father’s death, to declare himself; and he 
conformed to the usage of the English Church. He resided 
entirely at Westacre, with an occasional visit to Court, keejung 
open-handed hospitality, and slightly embarrassing the estate, 
though, like his father, he had only one child. He was a 
favourer of the Papists, and once or twice was in trouble on 
that account; but being perfectly loyal, and a very popular 
man, he was rather a favourite with the Queen, who always 
noticed him when he came to Court, and was wont to say that 
“ the dry crust Dick Inglesant gave a Papist should never choke 
him while she lived.” He lived beyond the tenn of years 
usual in his family, and died in 1629, at the age of eighty-two, 
having been for the last twenty years of his life, since the death 
of the Queen, entirely under the guidance of his son, very much 
to his own advantage, as during those black years for the 
Papists, he would most probably have committed imprudences 
wliich might have been his ruin. His son, whose name was 
Eustace, was a shrewd lawyer and courtier. He was—much 
more than his father—a Papist at heart, but he conformed 
strictly to the English Church, and possessed considerable 
indirect influence at Court. He was thought much of by the 
Catholics, who regarded him as one of their most powerful 
friends. He married young, in 1593, but he had no children 
by his first wife, who died in 1610; and in 1620 he married 
again, a Catholic lady who was his ward. With this lady he 
came to reside at Westacre; but two years after, his wife died 
in giving birth to two boys; and, disgusted with the country, 
he left the two infants to their grandfather’s care and retiuned 
to London, visiting Westacre, however, regularly at intervals; 
where, with a small number of servants, the old gentleman, 
totally forgetful of his old hospitality, and of his friends the 
Papists, spent his last days with the greatest delight, in anx¬ 
iously watching over his little grandchildren. They were 
beautiful boys, so exactly alike that it was impossible to tell 
them apart, and from their earliest infancy so united in love to 
each other that they became a proverb in the neighbourhood. 
The eldest was named Eustace, after his father; but the 





20 


JOHN inglesant; 


[chap, il 


youngest, at the entreaty of his young mother—uttered in 
her faint and dying voice, as the children lay before her during 
the few moments that were given her in mercy to look at them 
before her eyes were closed on these dearly purchased treasures 
and all other earthly things—was named John, after her 
brother, a Seminary priest of Douay, executed in England for 
saying mass, and refusing the oath of supremacy. 

Little need be told of the infancy of these boys : traditions 
remain, as in other cases, of their likeness to each other, needing 
different coloured ribbons to distinguish them; and of the old 
man’s anxious doting care over them. Many a pretty group, 
doubtless, they made, on warm summer afternoons, on the shady 
terrace; but the old grandfather died when they were seven 
years old, and slept with his father beneath the Chapel floor. 
After the funeral, Eustace Inglesant had intended taking both 
the children back with him to London, but he had discovered— 
or fancied he had discovered—that the youngest was sickly, and 
would be better for the country air; and therefore kept him at 
Westacre, when he returned to the city with his brother. The 
truth appears to be that he was a worldly, selfish man, and 
while fully conscious of the advantage of an heir, he was by no 
means desirous of giving himself more trouble than was neces¬ 
sary about either of his children. The old Priory, however, 
was, at this time, not a bad place to bring up a child in, though 
it had been neglected during the last ten or eleven years; though 
the woods were overgrown, and the oaks came up, in places, 
close to the house; though the Prior’s fish-ponds had transformed 
themselves into a large pool or lake; though the garden was a 
tangled wilderness, and centaury, woodsorrel, and sour herbs 
covered the ground; though the old courtyard and the Chapel 
itself were mouldering and ruinous, yet the air of the rich vales 
in the north of Wiltshire is more healthy than that of the 
higher downs, which are often covered with fogs when the vales 
are clear, and the sky is bright and serene. It was remarked 
that people lived longer in the valleys than at places that would 
be supposed peculiarly healthy on the hills; that they sang 
better in the (lurches ; and that books and rooms were not so 
damp and mouldy in the low situations as they were in those 
which stood very high, with no river or marsh near them. The 
fogs at times, indeed, came down into the valleys; and in the 
courtyai’d of the Priory dim forms had been seen flitting through 


A ROMANCE. 


21 


CHAP. II.] 

the mist, in reality the shadows of the spectators thrown upon 
the mist itself, from the light of a lanthorn. Such sights as 
these in such a place, so haunted by the memories of the past, 
gave rise to many strange stories—to which young Inglesant 
listened with wonder, as he did, also, to others of the ignis fatuus, 
which, called by the people “Kit of the Candlestick,” used, 
about Michaelmas, to be very common on the downs, and to 
wander down to the valleys across the low boggy grounds— 
stories of its leading travellers astray, and fascinating them. 
The boy grew up among such strange stories, and lived, indeed, 
in the old world that was gone for ever. His grandfather’s 
dimly remembered anecdotes were again and again recalled by 
others, all of the same kind, which he heard every day. Stories 
of the rood in the Chapel, of the mass wafer with its mysterious 
awfulness and power; of the processions and midnight singing 
at the Priory. The country was lull of the scattered spoil of 
the monasteries ; old and precious manuscripts were used 
everywhere by the schoolboys for covering their books, and 
for the covers of music; and the glovers of IMalmsbury wrapped 
their goods in them. In the churchyards the 3 ^ew-trees stood 
thick and undecayed, scarcely grown again from the last lopping 
to supply boughs for the archers of the King’s army. The 
story was common of the P>ecket’s path, along which he had 
been used to pass when cur^ priest at Winterbourn, and which 
could be seen through the deepest snow, or if jjloughed up and 
sown with corn. Indeed the path itself could be seen within a 
pleasant ride across the downs from Westacre. 

The boy’s first instructor was the old curate of the Cliapel, 
who taught him his Church Catechism and his Latin grammar. 
This man appears to have been one of those ministers so despised 
by the Puritans as “ mere grammar scholars,” who knew better 
how to read a homily than to make a sermon; yet John Ingle¬ 
sant learnt of him more good lessons than he did, as he himself 
owned, afterwards from many popular sermons; and in his old 
age he acknowledged that he believed the only thing that had 
kept him back in after years and under great temptations, from 
formally joining the communion of the Church of Rome, was 
some faint prejudice, some lingering dislike, grounded on the 
old man’s teaching. Other teachers, of a different kind, the 
child had in plenty. The old servants who still remained in 
the house; the woodsmen and charcoal burners; the village 



22 


JOHN inglesant; 


[chap. II. 


girls whom the housekeeper hired from year to year at Malms- 
bury fair; the old housekeeper who had been his mother’s maid, 
and whom the boy looked on as his mother, and who could coax 
him to her lap when he was quite a tall boy, by telling him 
stories of his mother; one or two falconers or huntsmen who 
lingered about the place, or watched the woods for game for the 
gentry around. When he was ten years old, in 1632, the curate 
of the Chapel died; and Mr. Inglesant did not at once replace 
him, for reasons which will appear presently. John led a broken 
scholastic life for a year, going to school when it was fine enough 

to make a pleasant walk attractive to-, where the Vicar 

taught some boys their grammar and Latin Terence in the Church 
itself; and where there was a tradition that the great antiquary. 
Master Camden, Clarencieux King of Aimis, coming on his survey 
to examine the Church, found him, and spoke to him and his 
scholars. At the end of a year, however, his father coming into 
the country, arranged for him to go to school at Ashley, where 
he was to stay in the house with the Vicar, a famous school¬ 
master ill the West country. This gentleman, who was a deli¬ 
cate and little person, and had an easy and attiactive way of 
teaching, was a Greek scholar and a Platonist, a Rosicrucian and 
a believer in alchemy and astrology. He found in little Ingle¬ 
sant an a})t pupil, an apprehensive and inquisitive boy, mild of 
spirit,'’and very susceptible of fascination, strongly given to 
superstition and romance; of an inventive imagination though 
not a retentive memory; given to day-dreaming, and,—what 
is more often found in children than some may think, though 
perhaps they could not name it,—metaphysical speculation. 
The Vicar^ taught his boys in the hall of his Vicarage—a large 
room wdth a porch, and armorial bearings in the stained glass 
in the windows. Out of this opened a closet or parlour where 
he kept his books, and in this he would sit after school wms over, 
writing his learned treatises, most of which he would read to 
John Inglesant, some of them in Latin. This, with his readings 
in Plato, assisted by his eager interest, gave John, as he grew 
older, a considerable acquaintance with both languages, so that 
he could read most books in cither of them, and turn over the 
remnants of the old world learning that still remained in the 
Prior’s library, with that lazy facility which always gives a 
meaning, though often an incorrect one—not always a matter 
of regret to an imaginati\-e reader, as adding a charm, and, 



A ROMANCK 


23 


CHAP. II.] 

where his own thought is happy, a beauty. Here he imbibed 
that mysterious Platonic philosophy, which—seen through the 
reflected rays of (fliristianity—becomes, as his master taught 
him, in some sort a foreshadowing of it, as the innocent and 
heroic life of Socrates, commended and admired by Christians 
as well as heathens, together with his august death, may be 
thought, in some measiure, to have borne the image of Christ; 
and, indeed, not without some mystery of purpose, and prepara¬ 
tion of men for Christianity, has been so magnified among men. 
Here, too, he eagerly drank in his master’s Rosicnician theories 
of spiritual existences : of the vital congruity and three several 
vehicles of the soul; the terrestrial, in which the soul should 
be so trained that she may stay as short ia time as possible in 
the second or aerial, but proceed at once to the third, the 
ethereal, or celestial; “that heavenly chariot, caiTying us, in 
triumph, to the great happiness of the soul of man.” Of the 
aerial genii, and souls separate, and of their converse with one 
anothei’, and with mankind. Of their dress, beauty, and out¬ 
ward form; of their pleasures and entertainments, from the 
Divinest harmony of the higher orders, who, with voices per¬ 
fectly imitating the passionate utterance of their devout minds, 
melt their souls into Divine love, and lose themselves in joy in 
God; while all nature is transformed by them to a quintessence 
of crystalline beauty by the chemical power of the spirit of nature, 
acting on pure essences. Of the feastings and wild dances of 
the lower and deeply lapsed, in whom some sad and fantastic 
imitation of the higher orders is to be traced; and of those aerial 
wanderers to whom poetical philosophers or philosophical poets 
have given the rivers and springs—the mountains and groves ; 
with the Dii Tutelares of cities and countries; and the Lares 
familiares, who love the warmth of families and the homely 
converse of men. These studies are but a part of tlie course of 
which occult chemistry and the lore of the stars form a part; 
and that mysterious Platonism wliich teaches that Pindar’s story 
of the Argo is only a secret recipe for the philosopher’s stone ; 
and which pretends that at this distance of time the life of 
Priam can be read more surely in the stars than in history. 

More than three years passed in these pursuits, when Ingle- 
sant,—now a tall, handsome, dreamy-looking boy of foiurteen, 
was suddenly recalled to Westacre by his father, who had unex¬ 
pectedly arrived from London. His master, who was very fond 




24 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap. II. 


of him, gave him many words of learned advice; for he expected, 
as proved to be the case, that his school-days—at least as far 
as he was concerned—were ended. He concluded with these 
W'ords :— 

“I have done my best to show you those hidden truths 
which the heathen divines knew as well .as we; how much 
more, then, ought we to follow them, who have the light of 
Christ! l)o not talk of these things, but keep them in your 
heart; hear what all men say, but follow no man: there is 
nothing in the world of any value but the Divine Light,—follow 
it. What it is no man can tell you; but I have told you many 
times, and you know very well it is not here nor there, as men 
shall tell you, for all men say they have it who are ignorant of 
its very nature. It will reveal itself when the time shall come. 
If you go to the Coiu't, as I think you will, attach yourself 
wliolly to the King and the Church party, the foundations of 
whose power are in the Divine will. I foresee dark clouds 
overhanging the Church, but let not these affright you; behind, 
the Divine Light shineth—the Light that shineth from the hill 
of God. I have tauglit you to clear your soul from the mists 
of carnal error, but I have never told you to act freely in this 
w'orld: you are not placed here to reason (as the sectaries and 
precisians do), but to obey. Eemember it is the very seal of a 
gentleman—to obey; remember the Divine words of Plato, in 
the Crito, when Socrates was about to suffer: how he refused, 
when urged, to break those laws under which he was falsely 
condemned. Let those words ring in your ears as they did in 
his; so that, like the worshippers of Cybele, who heard only 
the flutes, you shall hear nothing but the voice of God, speaking 
to you in that rank in which He has placed you, through those 
captains whom he has ordained to the command. Whenever— 
and in whatever place—the Divine Light shall appear to you, 
be assured it will never teach you anything contrary to this.” 

There was no horse sent for John, but he was obliged to 
ride in an uncomfortable manner before the serving man who 
was sent to fetch him; children, and especially younger sons, 
being treated as little better than servants, and they w^ere 
indeed often tyrannized over by the latter. Wlien he reached 
AYestacre, he was told his father was in one of the rooms in the 
new wing of the house, and on entering, he found him in com¬ 
pany with three other persons. One of these wa.s the newly 


CHAP. II.] 


A ROMANCE. 


25 


appointed curate of the Church, whom Johnny had never yet 
seen; the other was a fine, handsomely dressed man, with a 
lofty high-bred look, and in the window was a beautiful boy of 
about John’s own age in the costly dress of a page. Inglesant 
knew that this must be his brother Eustace; and after humbly 
receiving his father’s rather cold greeting, he hastened to embrace 
him, and he returned the greeting with warmth. But his father 
immediately presented him to the gentleman who stood by him; 
telling him that this gentleman woidd probably spend some time 
at Westacre, and that it was chietly that he should attend him, 
that he had sent for him home; charging him, at the same 
time, to serve and obey him implicitly, as he would his father 
or the King. 

“ He is a mere country lad,” he said, “ very different from 
his brother; but he is young, and may be useful in after 
days.” 

The gentleman looked at Johnny kindly, with a peculiar 
expression wdiich the boy had never before seen, penetrating 
and alluring at the same time. 

“He is, as you say, Esquire, a country lad, and wants the 
fine clothes of my friend the page, nevertheless he is a gallant 
and gentle boy, and were he attired as finely, woidd not shame 
you, Mr. Inglesant, more than he does. And I warrant,” he 
continued, “ this one is good at his books.” 

And sitting down, he drew Johnny on his knee, and taking 
from his pocket a small book, he said : “ Here, my friend, let 
us see how you can read in this.” 

It was the Phaedo of Plato, which Johnny knew nearly by 
neart, and he immediately began, with almost breathless rapidity, 
to construe with, here and there, considerable freedom, till the 
gentleman stopped him with a laugh. “Gently, gently, my 
friend. I saw you were a scholar, but not that you were a 
complete Platonist! I fear your master is one who looks more 
to the Divine sense than to the grammar! But never mind, 
you and I shall be much together, and as you are so fond of 
Plato, you shall read him with me. You shall go to your 
brother, who, if he cannot read ‘In Phaedoiie,’ can tell you 
many wonderful things of the Court and the city that no doubt 
you will hear very gladly;” and letting Johnny go, he turned 
to his father, saying, in an undertone, which, however, the boy 
lieard, “ The lad is apt, indeed ! more so than any of us could 




26 JOHN INGLESANT; [CHAP. II. 

have dreamt; no fitter soil, I could wager, we could have found 
in England !” 

Johnny went to his brother, and they left the room together. 
The two boys,—as the two children had been,—were remark¬ 
ably alike; the more so as this likeness of form and feature, 
which to a casual observer appeared exact, was consistent with 
a very remarkable difference of expression and manner—the 
difference being, as it were, contained in the likeness without 
destroying it. Their affection for each other, which continued 
through life, was something of tlie same character, arising 
apparently from instinct and nature, apart from inclination. 
Their tastes and habits being altogether different, they pursued 
their several courses quite contentedly, without an effort to be 
more united, but once united, or once recalled to each other’s 
presence or recollection even in the most accidental manner, 
they manifested a violent and overpowering attachment to each 
other. On the present occasion they wandered through the 
gardens and neighbourhood of the Priory; and as the strange 
gentleman had foretold, Johnny took the greatest interest in 
the conversation of his brother, whom, indeed, he both now and 
afterwards most unfeignedly admired, and to wdiose patronage 
he invariably submitted with perfect satisfaction. Eustace, 
who had lately been admitted one of the junior siipernumerary 
pages to the King, talked incessantly of the King’s state and 
presence chamber, of the yeomen of the guard, of the pageants 
and masques, and of banquets, triumphs, interviews, nuptials, 
tilts, and tournaments, the innumerable delights of the city; 
of the stage players, tumblers, fiddlers, inn-keeper's, fencers, 
jugglers, dancers, mountebanks, bear-wardens; of sweet odours 
and perfumes, generous wines, the most gallant young men, the 
fiiirest ladies, the rarest beauties the world could afford, the 
costly and curious attire, exquisite music, all delights and 
pleasures Avhich, to please the senses, could possibly be devised; 
galleries and terraces, rowing on the Thames, with music, on a 
pleasant evening, with the goodly palaces, and the birds singing 
on the banks. 

All this Johnny listened to with admiration, and made little 
reply to his Inother’s disparaging remarks on the miserable life 
he had led in the country, or to his sage advice to endeavour, 
by some means, to come to London to the Court. 

Johnny remembered his master’s counsel, and was silent on 


CHAP. II.] 


A ROAIANCE. 


27 


his own pleasures and pursuits. His pleasant walks by the 
brook side, pleasant shade by the sweet silver streams, good air, 
and sweet smell of fine, fresh meadow flowers, his walks among 
orchards, gardens, green thickets, and such-like places, in some 
solitary gvoves between wood and water, meditating on some 
delightful and pleasant subject—he thought his brother would 
only ridicule these things. It is true the next day when they 
went to the Avon to see an otter hunted, Johnny occupied the 
foremost place for a time; he was known to the keepers, and to 
two or three gentlemen who were at the sport, and was familiar 
with the terms in tracing the mark of the otter, and following 
through all the craft of the hunting, tracing the marks in the 
soft and moist places to see which way the head of the chase 
was turned. He carried his otter spear as well as any of the 
company, while the hounds came trailing and chanting along by 
the river-side, venting every tree root, every osier bed and tuft 
of bulrushes, and sometimes taking to the water, and beating it 
like spaniels. But as soon as the otter, escaping from the spears, 
was killed by the dogs, or, having by its wonderful sagacity and 
craft avoided the dogs, was killed by the spears, Eustace as¬ 
sumed his superior place, coming forward to talk to the gentle¬ 
men, who were delighted with him, while Johnny fell back into 
the quiet, dreamy boy again. 

The two brothers were left together for several days, their 
father, with the strange gentleman—whose name Eustace told 
Johnny was Hall—having departed on horseback, on a visit to 
a gentleman in Gloucestershire. Eustace observed great cau¬ 
tion in speaking of Mr. Hall, telling Johnny he would know all 
about him soon from himself The boys passed the time happily 
enough. Johnny’s affection for his brother increased every day, 
and withstood not only Eustace’s patronage, but—u hat must 
have been mucli more hard to bear—the different way in which 
the servants treated the two boys. • Eustace, who, though only 
a few minutes older than his brother, was the heir, was treated 
with great deference and respect; which might possibly also be 
owing to his being a stranger and to his Court breeding. Johnny, 
on the contrary, though he was quite as tall as his brother, they 
treated like a child ; the housekeeper took him up to bed when 
it pleased her; the old butler would have caned him without 
hesitation had he thought he deserved it; and the maids alter¬ 
nately petted and scolded him, the first of wdfich was more dis- 



28 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap. II, 


agreeable to him than the last. The hard condition of children, 
and especially of younger brothers, is a common theme of the 
writers of the period, and Johnny’s experience was not different 
from that of others. His disposition, however, was not injured 
by it, though it may have made him still fonder of retirement 
and of day-dreaming than he would have been. This hard dis¬ 
cipline made him resolve to be silent on those wonderful secrets 
and the learning that his master had taught him, and to medi¬ 
tate increasingly upon them in his heart. He delighted more 
and more in wandering by the river-side, building castles in the 
air, and acting an infinite variety of parts. When his brother 
left liim, this became still more delightful to him, and but for 
other influences he might have gone on in this fascinating habit 
till he realised Burton’s terrible description, and from finding 
these contemplations and fantastical conceits so delightful at 
first, might have become the slave of vain and unreal fancies, 
which may be as terrible and dismal as pleasing and delightful. 

After about a fortnight’s absence, Mr. Inglesant and Mr. 
Hall returned from their visit, or visits, for they appeared to 
have stayed at several places; and the next day Eustace and his 
father departed for London. His father displayed more affection 
than usual on leaving Johnny behind him, assuring him of his 
love, and that if he heard a good account of him from Mr. Hall, 
he should come up to London and see the Court. Eustace’s 
gi'ief at losing his brother again was much lessened by his joy at 
returning to his congenial life in London; but Johnny watched 
him from the old gate-house in front of the Priory with a sad 
heart. 

While he is standing looking after his father and brother, as 
they ride up the hill by the same path which the Prior came 
down that fine summer morning long years before, we will take 
a moment’s time to explain certain events of which he was per¬ 
fectly ignorant, but which were about to close about him and 
involve him in a labyrinth from which he may have been said 
never to have issued during his life. We call oirrselves free 
agents;—was this slight, delicate boy a free agent, with a mind 
and spirit so susceptible, that the least breath affected them; 
around whom the throng of national contention was about to 
close; on whom the intrigue of a great religious party was 
about to seize, involving him in a whirlpool and rapid current 
of party strife and religious rancour 1 Must not the utmost 


CHAP. II.] 


A ROMANCE. 


29 


that can be hoped,—that can be even rationally wished for—be, 
that by the blessing of the Divine guidance, he may be able to 
direct his path a little towards the Light ? 

The laws oppressing the Roman Catholics, which had been 
stringently enforced during the greater part of James’s reign, 
had been considerably relaxed when he was negotiating with 
the Spaniards for the marriage of his son, and again on King 
Charles’s marriage with Henrietta Maiia of France. From that 
time greater and greater leniency "was shown them, not only 
by the exertion of Catholic influence at Comrt, but also through 
Puritan jealousy; the juries refusing to punish popish recusants, 
because Puritan separatists were included in the lists. Spas¬ 
modic exertions of severity wwe made from time to time by the 
King and the Church party; but, on the whole, the Papists en¬ 
joyed more and more lij^ierty, especially between 1630 and 1640. 
Advantage was takerfoy the party of this freedom to the fullest 
extent; money was amassed abroad, an army of missionary 
priests poured into England, agents were sent from the Pope, 
and every eflbrt made in every part of England to gain converts, 
and confirm uncertain members. Many Papists who had con¬ 
formed to the authority of the English Chinch beginning to 
entertain hopes of the ultimate success of the old religion, feU 
away and became recusants—that is, ceased to attend their 
Parish Church. Mr. Inglesant, who—through all his life—had 
watched the progress of affairs with a careful and far-reaching 
penetration, had, from the first, been in communication with 
chiefs of the popish party; but he was far too important a 
friend where he was to allow of any change in his behavioin, 
and he still rigidly conformed to the Established Church. The 
Roman Catholics were divided into two parties, holding two 
opinions, which, under different aspects, actuate all religious 
parties at the present day. The one view^ed the English Church 
and its leader Archbishop Laud with hatred, regarding him, and 
doubtless with great truth, as their most formidable opponent, 
as occupying a place in the country and in the allegiance of the 
majority of Englishmen which otherwise could only have been 
filled by the older Church : the other, looking more at the re¬ 
semblances between the two Churches, held the opinion that 
little was needed to bring the Established Church into com¬ 
munion and submission to the Papal See, and by that means, at 
once, and without trouble, restore the papal authority in Eng- 



30 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap. II. 


land. The efforts of this party were of a more political nature 
than those of the other; they endeavoured to win over Arch¬ 
bishop Laud to a conference, and a Cardinal’s hat was offered 
to him more than once. To this party Mr. Inglesant belonged. 
Occupying a neutral position himself, and possessed of the con¬ 
fidence of members of both Churches, he was peculiarly fitted 
for such negotiations, and was in constant communication with 
those Churchmen, very numerous at Com't, and among the 
clergy and the country gentry, who were favourably disposed 
to the Papists, though at the same time sincere members of 
their own Chm’ch, The value of emissaries possessing in this 
way the confidence of Church people and Papists alike was so 
obvious, that Mr. Inglesant ami his friends did all they could to 
add to their number, especially as they were not very easy to 
prociue, great jealousy existing, among nearly all Church people, 
of any foreign or armed interference in England on the part of 
the Romanists, who were always suspected of such intentions. 
Mr. Inglesant, therefore, whom nothing escaped, had marked 
out his younger son’s temperament as one peculiarly fitted to be 
trained for such a purpose, and had communicated this idea to 
his intimate associate among the Papists, Father Sancta Clara, 
as he was called, of an English family named St. Clare, a Jesuit 
missionary priest who travelled in England under the name of 
Mr. ^11. The latter was a man of great influence, unbounded 
dev (^011 to his order, and unflinching courage; a profound 
scholar, and, according to the knowledge of that day, a man of 
science, trained, indeed^ in every variety of human learning, and 
taking advantage of every scrap of knowledge and information 
for the advancement of his purpose. Of elegant and fascinating 
manners, and accustomed to courtly life abroad, he was, perhaps,’ 
the most influential agent among the thousand mission priests 
at that time scattered through England. His time, of course, 
was fully taken up with his difficult embassy, but^e was in¬ 
terested in the account Inglesant gave of his son; and the idea 
of training him to such usefulness in three or four years’ time, 
when their plans might be expected to be ripe, commended itself 
exceedingly to Ills peculiar genius and habit of mind. He was 
at this time Superior over part of the south-west of England, 
and was much engaged among the gentry iii those parts—a 
position of peculiar difliculty, as the people of the gveater part 
of that district were strongly Puritan, and the gentry hostile to 


CHAP. III.] 


A ROMANCE. 


31 


Rome. So Becluded and convenient a position as Westacre 
Priory was exactly adapted to aid him in his mission, and he 
resolved to take up his quarters there, from whence he could, 
with great hopes of escaping observation, continue his work in 
the adjoining country. Mr. Inglesant, with an eye to such a 
contingency, had purposely omitted to appoint a chaplain at the 
Priory for some time, and now nominated a Mr.-, a gradu¬ 

ate of Oxford, a man who was “ ex aiiimo a Papist, and who 
only waited a suitable time to declare himself one. The number 
of such men was very great, and they were kept in the English 
Church only by the High Chiu'ch doctrines and ceremonies in¬ 
troduced by Archbishop Laud; affording one out of numberless 
parallels between that age and the present. It is perhaps not 
necessary to say more in this place to explain the presence of 
Mr. Hall (other^vise Father Sancta Clara) at Westacre, nor the 
future that lay before Johnny Inglesant as he stood by the gate¬ 
house of the old Priory looking after his father and Eustace as 
they rode up the hilL 


CHAPTER IIL 

Father Sancta Clara was obliged to remain quiet at^Vest- 
acre for some time, and devoted himself entirely to gaining an 
influence over Johnny. Of course in this he was entirely suc¬ 
cessful There was a good library, for that day, at the Priory; 
the Prior’s old books were still on the shelves, and Richard 
Inglesant, who we have seen was a scholar, added largely to 
them, bringing all his books into the country when he came to 
live at Westacre. The difference between Johnny’s former 
master and his present one was that between a theorist and 
dreamer and a statesman and man of the world and critical 
student of human nature. The Father made Johnny read with 
him every day, and by his wealth of learning and acquaintance 
with men and foreign rountries, made the reading interesting in 
the highest degree. In this way he read the classics, making 
them not dead school books, but the most human utterances 
that living men ever spoke; and while from these he drew illus¬ 
trations of human life when reading Plato—which he did every 
day_he led his pupil to perceive, as he did more fully when he 



32 


JOHN inglesant; 


[chap. in. 


grew older, that wonderful insight into the spiritual life and 
spiritual distinctions which even Christianity has failed to sur¬ 
pass. He led him, step by step, through that noble resolve by 
which Socrates—at frightM odds, and with all ordinary experi¬ 
ence against him—maintains tlie advantage to be derived from 
truth; he pointed out to him the three different elements to be 
found in Plato : the Socratic or negative argument, simply over¬ 
throwing received opinion; the pseudo-scientific, to which Plato 
was liable from the condition of knowledge in liis day; and, 
finally, the exalted flight of the transcendental reason, which, 
leaving alike the scepticism of the negative argument and the 
dreams of false science, flies aloft into the pure ether of the 
heavenly life. He read to him Aristophanes, pointing out in 
him the opposing powers which were at work in the Hellenic 
life as in the life of every civilized age. He did not conceal 
from him the amount of right there is on the popular side of 
plain common sense, nor the soundness of that fear which hesi¬ 
tates to overthrow the popular forms of truth, time-honoured 
and revealed, which have become in the eyes of the majority, 
however imperfect they may really be, the truth itself. Nor 
did he fail to show him the unsuitability of the Socratic argu¬ 
ment to the masses of the people, Avho will stop at the negative 
part, and fail of the ethereal flight beyond; and he showed him 
how it might be possible, and even the best thing for mankind, 
that Socrates should die, though Socrates at that moment was 
the noblest of mankind: as, afterwards, though for a different 
reason, it was expedient that a nobler than Socrates should die 
for the people,—nobler, that is, in that he did what Socrates 
foiled in doifig, and carried the lowest of the people with him 
to the ethereal gates. And in this entering into sympathy with 1 
the struggle of humanity, he prepared his pupil to receive in 
after years (for it is a lesson that cannot be fully learned until 
middle life is approached) that kindly love of humanity; that 
sympathy with its smallest interests; that toleration of its errors, 
and of its conflicting opinions; that interest ih local and familiar 
affairs, in which the highest cidture is at one with the unlearned 
rustic mind. 

The boy drank in all this with the greatest aptitude, and 
would have listened all day, but his tutor insisted on his taking 
his full amount of exercise, and himself commanded his admira¬ 
tion as much by skill in the sports of the field as by learning. 


CHAP. III.] 


A ROMANCE. 


33 

He made no effort to draw his mind away from the English 
Church, farther than by giving him a crucifix and rosary, and 
teaching him the use of them, and pointing out the beauties of 
the Roman use; he even took pains to prevent his becoming 
attached to Popery, telling him that his father would not wish 
him to leave the Church of England ; and though that Church 
was at present in schism, it would probably soon be reunited, 
and that meanwhile the difference Avas unimportant and slight. 
He knew, indeed, that from the excitable and enthusiastic 
nature of his pupil, if he once became attached strongly to 
Roman theology, all his use as a mediator between the two 
parties would at once be lost; and he therefore contented him¬ 
self with securing his own influence over Johnny; which he 
accomplished to the most unlimited extent. 

After certain preparations had been made, and some needful 
precautions taken, a great change took place in the life at West- 
acre Priory. Strangers were constantly arriving, stayed a few 
hours, and departed, mostly coming in the night, and leaving, 
also, after sunset. Several, however, remained a longer time, 
and took gTeat pains to conceal themselves. They all had long 
interviews with the Father. Services Avere also performed in 
the Chapel, frequently in Latin. It was death to say mass in 
England, except in the Queen’s Chapels at St James’s, at Somer¬ 
set House, and at Woodstock, nevertheless mass was said in all 
parts of England, and it was said at Westacre. One night, after 
Johnny had been asleep for some hours, he was awakened by 
Father St. Clare, who told him to dress himself and come with 
him, and, at the same time, charged him never to tell any one 
what he might be about to see—an injunction which the boy 
would have died rather than disobey. The long streaks of the 
summer dawn stretched across the sky before them as they 
crossed the courtyard toAvards the Chapel, and the roofs stood 
out sharp and distinct in the dim, chill air. The Chapel Avas 
lighted, and on the white cloth of the altar AA^ere tapers and 
fioAvers. Half aAvake in the sweet fresh morning air, Johnny 
knelt on the cold flag-stones of the Chapel and saAv the mass. 
Strangers avIio had come to the Priory on purpose were present, 
and some gentlemen of the neighbourhood Avhom Johnny knew. 
It is strange that the Jesuit should have placed so much trust 
in the prudence and fidelity of a boy; but he probably kncAv his 
])upil, and certainly had no cause to repent. This Avas not the 

1 ) 




34 


JOHN INGLESANT ; 


[chap. III. 


only time mass vi is said; for one winter night—or rather morn¬ 
ing—an old peasant, known in the neighbourhood as Father 
Wade, had been to Marlborough wake, and being benighted, 
bethought himself of asking a lodging at the Priory, and ap¬ 
proached it by a pathway from the east, which, crossing the 
meadows beyond the Chapel, came round to the gate-house at the 
front. He, however, never reached the gate, and being found 
at home the next day, and questioned as to where he passed the 
night, he was at first evasive in his replies, but on being pressed, 
told a mysterious story of strange lights and shapes of men he 
had seen about the Priory; and approaching—he said—fearfully 
along the path, there, sure enough ! were the old monks passing 
up in procession from the graveyard through the wall into the 
Chapel, as through a door; and he heard the long-remembered 
chanting of the mass, and saw the tapers shining through the 
east window, as he had seen them when a little boy. 

This manner of life went on for about a year, at the end of 
which time Father St. Clare’s absences became more frequent, 
and Johnny was left much alone. The Father’s mission in the 
west of England was not prospering, for the very simple reason 
that he was too good for the work. As far as the duties of a 
Superior went, everything was satisfactory. The country was 
mapped out in districts, and emissaries were appointed to each; 
but for the peculiar mission of Father St. Clare—that of per¬ 
sonal influence—there was no scope. It was the habit of the 
Jesuits, by the charms of their conversation and learning, by their 
philosophical theories, and in some cases by their original systems 
of science, to gain the confidence and intimacy of the highest both 
in station and intellect, and for this seed to spring up, there 
must be first a suitable soil for it to be sown in, and this soil 
was particularly scarce in Wiltshire. All the refinement and 
learning of Father St. Clare was thrown away upon the country 
squires; any boon companion would have influenced them quite 
as well. Becoming conscious of this, the Jesuit rode frequently 
to London, where work which required the highest skill and 
talent.was going on; and in his absence Johnny was left very 
much to his own devices. During one of these absences a priest 
who had remained concealed several days at the Priory, and 
who had taken a fancy to the boy, gave him, at parting, a little 
book, telling him to read it carefully, and it would be of use to him 
through life. It was entitled “The Flaming Heart, or the Life of 


CSAP. III.] 


A ROMANCE. 


35 


St. Theresa,” of which a later edii ion, printed in 1642, was dedi¬ 
cated to Henrietta Maria. It opened a new world of thought to 
Johnny, who was now sixteen years of age, and he read it many 
times from beginning to end. A great deal of it was so strange 
to Inglesant, that he was repelled by it. The exaggeration of 
the duty of self-denial, the grotesque humility, the self-denun¬ 
ciation for the most trifling faults, most of the details indeed 
appeared to him either absurd or untrue; but, running through 
all the book, the great doctrine of Divine Illumination fascinated 
him. The sublime but mysterious way of devotion pointed out 
in it, while quite different from anything he had previously 
heard of, was still sufficiently in accordance with the romantic 
habit of his mind, and with the mystic philosophy in which his 
old master had trained him, to cause him to follow it with an 
eager sympathy. The natural and inspired writings of the 
great mystics, indeed, breathe a celestial purity, entirely distinct 
from those of their inferior disciples, who brought down their 
spiritual system to earth and earthly purposes. The rest from 
individual effort, the calm after long striving, the secret joy in 
God, the acquiescing in His will, in which the true elevation of 
devotion lies, and which is not the effect of lively imaginations 
or of fruitful inventions—of these, all men are not capable, but 
all may reach the silent and humble adoration of God which 
arises out of a pure and quiet mind; just as when a man enters 
into an entire friendship with another, then the single thought 
of his friend affects him more tenderly than all that variety of 
reflections which may arise in his mind where this union is not 
felt. This inward calm and quiet in which men may in silence 
form acts of faith and feel those inward motions and directions 
which, as this book taught, follow all those who rise up to this 
elevation, and which lead them onward through the devious 
paths of this life, what must this be but the Divine Light of which 
his old master had so often told him he was ignorant, but whose 
certain coming he had led him constantly to expect 'I Enticed 
by such thoughts as these, he passed the days, hardly knowing 
what he did ; and wandered in this perplexed labyrinth without 
a guide. Without a guide ! but this book of his told him of a 
guide—a spiritual guide—nay, even recommended obedience 
and entire submission to this director; and dissuaded from self- 
confidence. Where, then, was this guide, to whom, in the midst 
of such spii'itual light and life, and after such ecstatic visions, 


38 


JOHN inglesant; 


[chap, iil 


he should turn ? The hook said it was the priest—any priest 
would do—but still it was the priest. This seemed to John 
Inglesant, whose perceptions the Jesuit had sharpened, but 
whose unrestrained romance he had not crushed, to be very 
different from that Divine Light of which his master spoke, from 
that transcendental voice of the Platonic Reason speaking in the 
silence of the soul; nay, it seemed to him to be a fall even 
from the teaching of the book itself. Meditating on these things, 
Johnny thought he would visit his old master, to see what he 
had to say about this new doctrine. 

It was a fine summer morning when he made the visit; he 
had a horse of his own now, and a servant if he chose, but he 
preferred to-day to go alone. He found Mr. -had discon¬ 

tinued his school, and was entirely buried in his books; only 
reading morning and evening prayers, and a homily or one of 
his old sermons in the Church on Sundays. He never left 
his study on other days, except for a turn in his little garden. 
His house was by the wayside, with a small paved coiu’t before 
the hall; and by the side of this court, the garden, into which 
the window of the study, in a gabled wing adjoining the hall, 
looked to'vvards the road. He was pleased to see Inglesant, 
though he very dimly remembered him, and questioned him of 
his studies. Johnny read him some Plato with the Jesuit’s 
comments, of which the old gentleman took notes eagerly, and 
afterwards incorporated them in his book. The book he was 
Avriting was upon Talismanic figures, but he was not particular 
Avhat he put into it, anything of an occult and romantic 
character being Avelcome, and introduced with not a little in¬ 
genuity.' He had no sense nor understanding of anything else 
in the Avorld but such subjects and his books; and being 
exceedingly infirm, he could scarcely lift some of the larger 
folios Avhich lay heaped about him within reach. He blessed 
God that his eyesight Avas so good, and that he could still read 
Greek—the contracted Greek type of that day. After, some 
conversation, Inglesant opened his mind to him, told him what 
he had been reading, and asked his opinion. The old scholar 
pricked up his ears, and set to Avork with gi'eat delight, taking 
notes all the time; and Johnny found, years afterwards, Avhen 
he happened to read his book in London, that all he told him 
was introduced into it. 

“I find nothing, my dear pupil,” he said, “in the Christian 



CHAP. III.] 


A ROMANCE. 


37 


Church, very old, concerning this doctrine — for that author 
who goes by the name of Dionysius the Areopagite is of far 
later date—But I will discover to you some mysteries concern¬ 
ing it, which, so far as I know, have never been brought to 
light by any man. I find the germ of this doctrine in those 
fragments of metaphysics which go under Theophrastus his 
name; who was a disciple of Aristotle, and succeeded him in 
his school; and was an excellent philosopher certainly, by the 
works by him which remain to this day. Here he says that 
the understanding joined to the body, can do nothing without 
the senses, which help it as far as they can to distinguish 
sensible things from their first causes, but that all knowledge 
and contemplation of the first causes, must be by very touching 
and feeling of the mind and soul; which knowledge, thus gained, 
is not liable to error. Synesius, a man well known amongst 
scholars, being vexed that this new divinity began in his day 
to be in request amongst Christians; and some illiterate monks 
and others taking advantage of it to magnify ignorance, to bring 
themselves into repute;—Synesius, I say, wrote that exquisite 
treatise which he inscribed ‘Dio,’ to prove the necessity of 
human learning and philosophy to all who will contemplate 
high things with sobriety and good success. ‘ God forbid,’ he 
says, ‘ that we should think that if God dwell in us, He should 
dwell in any other part of us than that which is rational, which 
is His own proper temple.’ 

“Now whether the writings of some ancient and later 
Platonists, Greeks and Arabs, Heathens and Mahometans, be a 
sufficient ground and warrant for them that profess to ascribe 
more to the Scriptures, by which sobriety of sense is so much 
commended unto us, than to the opinions of heathen philo¬ 
sophers, I leave you to consider.” 

Then Inglesant left him, for he seemed more desirous to put 
ideas into his book than to impart them, and rode home across 
the downs. As he went, he overtook a gentleman riding an 
easy-going palfrey, whom he found to be one whom he knew; 
one, indeed, of those who had attended the early morning mass 
in the Chapel. This gentleman, who was one of those called 
Church Papists, that is. Papists who saved themselves from the 
charge of recusancy by sometimes attending their Parish Church, 
knowing Johnny, and placing faith in him, began at once to 
relate his troubles. I’e dwelt sadly on the fines he had to pay 


38 


JOHN inglesant; 


[chap. III. 


and his difficulties in avoiding the coinmimion at Easter; but 
his greatest troubles were caused by his wife, who was much 
more zealous than he was, and refused to go to Church once a 
month to keep off the Churchwardens. Her religion, indeed, 
was so costly to him, that he had rather have had a city lady 
with her extravagant dress. He was very particular in in¬ 
quiring after Fcither St. Clare, and whether Inglesant knew of 
anything he was engaged in; but John could give him no 
information, not knowing anything of the Jesuit’s plans. They 
were hard times, he said, for a good quiet subject who wished 
to live at peace with his King and with his clergyman; but 
what with the fear of the apparitor on one hand, and of his 
wife and her advisers among the Catholics on the other—he 
had a hard time of it. He was a cheerful man naturally, how¬ 
ever, and leaving this discourse, which he thought would tire 
his companion, he entertained him for some time with the news 
of the country, of which he gathered great abundance in his 
rides. Among other things, he told him of a clergyman at a 
parish not far off, who, he said, must be a Catholic in his heart, 
for his piety was so great and his punctuality in reading common 
prayer, morning and evening, in the Chmch alone in his surplice 
so regular, that—so the common report ran—he had brought 
down an angel from heaven, who appeared to him in the Church 
one evening in the glow of the setting sun, and told him many 
wonderful and heavenly things. When the gentleman had 
related this, they came to the point where their roads parted, 
and he invited Johnny—for he was very courteous—to come on. 
to his house, and sup with him. To this Inglesant consented, 
visits being a rare pleasure to him, and they rode together to 
the gentleman’s house, which stood on the edge of the downs, 
with a courtyard and gate-house before it, and at the back a fair 
hall and parlour, having a wide prospect over the valley and 
the distant view. Johnny was com'teously received by the 
popish lady and her sister, who was devout and very pretty. 
The supper would have been very plain—the day being a fast 
—but the gentleman insisted on waiting while a rabbit was 
cooked for his friend; and when it came, he partook of it him¬ 
self, in spite of his wife’s remonstrances—out of courtesy to his 
guest, he said, and also to enable him to get over his next fine, 
which, he said, it ought to do. Tiie ladies asked John Iiigle- 
sant many questions about the Father, and what tooli place at 


CHAP. III.] 


A ROMANCE. 


39 


the Priory; also about his brother the Page. This made hin? 
leave early, for though he knew nothing of any plots or treason, 
he was constantly afraid of saying something he ought not to 
do; nothing was said, however, about the morning mass, which 
was too serious a matter to be lightly spoken of. 

As he rode away through the soft evening light, he thought 
80 much of the story the gentleman had told him, that he made 
up his mind to ride to the village and see the clergyman whose 
goodness -svas so manifest and so rewarded. He, surely—if no 
one else could—would show him the true path of Devotion. 

Two or three days afterwards he took the ride, and arrived 
at the small old Church at a very opportune moment, for the 
clergjnnan in his surplice was just going into it to read the 
evening prayers. Inglesant attended devoutly, being the only 
person present; for the sexton’s wife, who rang the bell, did 
not consider that her duty extended farther. Prayers being 
over, the parson invited Johnny to supper—a much better one 
than he had had at the Papist’s—and Inglesant stated his 
difficulties to him, and asked his advice. Tlie Parson showed 
him several small books which he had written; one on bowing 
and taking off the hat at the name of Jesus; another on the 
cross in baptism, and kneeling at the communion; a third on 
turning to the east, which last appeared to be mostly quotations 
and enlargements from Dr. Donne ; a fourth on the use of the 
surplice. He repudiated being popishly inclined; having dis¬ 
proved, he said, that any of these practices were popish, in all 
his books, all of which, as far as Johnny coidd see, displayed 
considerable ingenuity; and while he inserted many trivial and 
weak passages, he seemed to have been well read in the Fathers 
and other old authors, and to have been a loyal, honest, and 
zealous advocate, according to his capacity, of the Church of 
England. He evidently looked on forms and ceremonies with 
the greatest reverence, and was totally incapable of telling his 
visitor anything of that mystical life he was so anxious to realize. 
Johnny inquired about the angel, but his host, while not appear¬ 
ing displeased at the reports being spread abroad, professed to 
deny all knowledge of it, but in such a way as to make Inglesant 
think he would like to have acknowledged it, had he dared. 
He rode away disappointed, and began to think he must consult 
Father St. Clare; which, for some reason or other, ho had felt 
a disinclination to do. 


40 


JOHN INGLESANT ; [CHAP. HI. 

While he was in this perplexity, he bethought himself of 
his first schoolmaster, the man who taught in the Church where 
Camden visited him. He had forgotten all about this man, 
except that he was of a mild and kind nature; but he was so 
anxious for direction that he went to him at once. This man 
had been very poor, and brought up a large family, all of whom, 
however, he had put forward in life, some at the University and 
the Church, and some among the clothiers and glove-makers at 
hlalmsbury and the other towns of Wiltshire. Johnny found 
him living alone—for his wife was dead—in a small cottage no 
better than a countryman’s, with a few books, which with his 
garden were all the wealth he possessed. He was a gi'eat 
herbalist, and famous in the country for his cures and for his 
sermons, though no two people could agree why they admired 
the latter: all uniting in considering him a simple and rather 
poor preacher. This Inglesant learnt from a coimtryman who 
walked at his horse’s side as he came near the village; but 
when he found the old gentleman sitting on a bench before his 
study window, and he rose and met his look, Inglesant saw at 
once—thanks to the cultivation of his perception by the Jesuit’s 
teaching—what it was that gained him the people’s love. He 
had large and melting eyes that looked straight into the hearts 
of those who met him, as though eager to help them and do 
them good. He received Johnny with great kindness, though 
he Jiad quite forgotten him, and did not even remember when 
he told him who he was. But when Inglesant, who found it 
very easy to speak to him of what had brought him there, told 
him of his difficulties, he listened with the greatest interest and 
sympathy. When he had finished speaking, he remained some 
minutes silent, looking across the garden where the hot mid¬ 
day air was playing above the flowers. 

“ You have been speaking,” he said at length, “ of very high 
and wonderful things, into which, it would seem, even the angels 
dare not look; for we are, as would appear, taught in Scripture 
that it is in man’s history that they see the workings of Divine 
Glory. And indeed, worthy Mr. Inglesant, when you have 
lived to the limit of my many years, you will not stumble at 
this; nor think this life a low and poor place in which to seek 
the Divine Master walking to and fro. These high matters of 
which you speak, and this heavenly life, is not to be disbelieved, 
only it seems to me—more and more—that the soul or spirit of 


CHAP. Ill,] 


A ROMANCK 


41 


every man in passing through life among familiar things is 
among supernatural things always, and many things seem to 
me miraculous which men think nothing of, such as memory, 
by which we live again in place and time—and of which, if I 
remember rightly, for I am a very poor scholar, you doubtless 
know, St. Augustine says many pertinent things—and the love 
of one another, by which we are led out of ourselves, and made 
to act against our own natiure by that of another, or, rather, by 
a higher nature than that of any of us; and a thousand fancies 
and feelings which have no adequate cause among outward 
things. Here, in this book which I was reading when you so 
kindly came to see me, are withered flowers, which I have 
gathered in my rambles, and keep as friends and companions of 
pleasant places, streams and meadows, and of some who have 
been with me, and now are not. There is one, this single yellow 
flower—it is a tormentilla, which is good against the plague— 
what is it, that, as I hold it, makes me think of it as I do? 
Faded flowers have something, to me, miraculous and super¬ 
natural about them: though, in fact, it is nothing wonderful 
that the textiue of a flower being dried siu’vives. It is not in 
the flower, but in our immortal spirit that the miracle is. All 
these delightfid thoughts that come into my mind when I look 
at this flower—thoughts, and fancies, and memories—what are 
they but the result of the alchemy of the immortal spirit, which 
takes all the pleasant, fragile things of life, and transmutes them 
into immortality in our own nature ! And if the poor spirit and 
intellect of man can do this, how much more may the supreme 
creative intellect mould and form all things, and bring the pre¬ 
sence of the supernatural face to face with us in our daily walk ! 
Earth becomes to us, if we thus think, nothing but the garden 
of the Lord, and every fellow-being we meet and see in it, a 
beautiful and invited guest; and, as I think I remember, many 
of the heathen poets, after their manner, have said very flue 
things about this; that we should rise cheerfully from this life, 
as a grateful guest rises from an abundant feast; and though 
doubtless they were very dark and mistaken, yet I confess they 
always seemed to me to have something of a close and entire 
fellowship with the wants of men, which I think the Saviour 
would have approved. If you, sir, can receive this mystery, 
and go through the honomable path of life which lies before 
you, looking upon yourself as an immortal spirit walking among 


42 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap. III. 


Bupernatural things—for the natiu’al things of this life would be 
nothing were they not moved and animated by the efficacy of 
that which is above nature—I think you may find this doctrine 
a light which will guide yoim feet in dark places; and it would 
seem, unless I am mistaken, that this habit of mind is very 
likely to lead to the blessedness of the Beatific Vision of God, 
on the quest of which you have happily entered so young; for 
siu'ely it should lead to that state to which this vision is pro¬ 
mised—the state of those who are Pure in Heart. For if it be 
true, that the reason we see not God is the grossness of this 
tabernacle wherein the soul is incased, then the more and the 
oftener we recognize the supernatural in our ordinary life, and 
not only expect and find it in those rare and short moments of 
devotion and prayer, the more, surely, the rays of the Divine 
Light will shine through the dark glass of tins outward form of 
life, and the more om' own spirit will be enlightened and pmdfied 
by it, until we come to that likeness to the Divine Natime, and 
that purity of heart to w'hich a share of the Beatific Vision is 
promised, and which, as some teach, can be attained by being 
abstract from the body and the bodily life. As we see every 
day that the superiiatimal in some men gives a particular bright¬ 
ness of air to the countenanco, and makes the face to shine 
with an inimitable lustre, and if it be true that in the life to 
come we shall have to see through a body and a glass however 
transparent, we may well practise oim eyes by making this life 
spiritual, as we shall have also to strive to do in that to which 
we go. My predecessor in this living, doubtless a very worthy 
man (for I knew him not), has left it recorded on his tombstone 
—as I will show you if you will come into the Church—that he 
was ‘ full of cares and full of years, of neither weary, but full of 
hope and of heaven.’ I should desire that it may be faithfully 
recorded of me that I was the same !” 

John went with him into the Chimch, and read the old 
vicar’s epitaph and several more—for he was very much taken 
with the old gentleman’s talk, and indeed stayed with him the 
whole day: his host adding a dish of eggs and a glass of small 
beer to his daily very frugal meal. Johnny invited him to come 
to the Priory, and so left him, more pleased and satisfied with 
this than with any of his other visits. As he rode back through 
the darkening valley, and through the oak wood before the 
Priory gate, he little thought that not only should he not see 


CHAP. III.] 


A ROIHANCE. 


43 


the old Parson again, but that his quiet contemplative life was 
come to an end, and his speculations would now be chased away 
by a life of action; and for the future the decision, often to be 
made at once, as to what he ought to do, would appear of more 
consequence than that other decision, which had seemed to him, 
sometimes, the only important one, as to what it was right to 
think. 

When he reached the Priory, he found the Jesuit had returned, 
and when at supper he inquired of Johnny if his ride had been 
a pleasant one, as the servant had told him he had been out 
since the morning, Johnny began at once and told him all that 
had been passing in his mind since the priest had given him 
the book, and of all the directors he had sought for his guid¬ 
ance. Father St. Clare listened (though it may be doubted 
whether the recital was altogether agreeable to him) with great 
attention, and seemed pleased and amused at the boy’s descrip¬ 
tions, which showed his pupil’s fine perception of character. 

“You have taken a wise course,” he said, “which has led 
you to see much of the workings of the minds of men : this is 
the most usefid study you can follow, and the most harmless to 
yourself, if you keep yoim own counsel, and gain knowledge 
without imparting it. I am glad you have told me all this, 
because it shows me I have not been deceived in you, but that 
the time is fully ripe for you to play the part yoim father and I 
have destined for you, and to play it—to great extent—alone. 
The day after to-morrow we shall go up to London; on the 
w^ay, I will open to you the position of parties, the crisis of 
affairs—a position and a crisis such as never was before in this 
or any other country ! You are very young, but you are years 
older in mind than most of your age, and your youth renders 
you all the more fit for the work I have for you to do. I trust 
you without reserve; I shall commit to your keeping secrets 
which w^ould, if revealed, bring the highest heads in England^ 
not to speak of my own, to the block. I have no fear of you.” 

Inglesant listened breathlessly and with open eyes to this 
address. It made his heart beat high with delight and excite¬ 
ment. Death—nay, the bitterest torture—would be nothing 
to him, if only he could win this man’s approval, and be not 
only true but successful in his trust. His entire devotion to 
the Jesuit cannot be looked upon as anything wonderful, for 
the w’hole mental powder of the latter, directed by the nicest art 


44 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap. IV. 


—a power and an art at that time not surpassed in Eimope— 
had been directed to this end upon the boy’s susceptible nature, 
and the result could not be doubtful. 

The Jesuit might well say that the crisis was imminent, 
and the position of affairs peculiar. Plotters were at work in 
all directions, and for different ends; but the schemes of all 
miscarried, and the expectations of all proved to be miscalcida- 
tions: those of the Eoman Catholics—with whom St. Clare 
was associated—more than all. Their expectations were at the 
highest pitch. The Court influence was with them to a large 
extent. The Church of England was at its highest summit of 
glory and power, and its standing-point was almost their own. 
Laud was partly gained. He had refused a Cardinal’s hat; but 
in such a way that the offer was immediately renewed, and 
remained open. It seemed, indeed, as though little more 
remained to do when this goodly edifice began to crumble, 
slowly, indeed, but surely, and with accelerating speed. A new 
power appeared in the country; hostile, indeed, to Catholicism, 
but, what was much worse, also slightly contemptuous of it, 
directing its full force against the Chiu-ch and the Crown. 
The Church collapsed with wonderful suddenness; and the 
Crown was compelled to seek its own preservation, extending 
what little,aid it might be able to render to the Church; neither 
had the least power or time to give to the assistance of their 
former allies. All this had not happened when the Jesuit and 
Johnny rode up to London, but it was foreshadowed clearly in 
the immediate future. 


CHAPTER IV. 

fATHEn St. Clare and Johnny set out the next day, accom¬ 
panied by two servants on horseback. The road was quite 
new to Inglesant after they left Malmsbury; and he was greatly 
delighted and amused with all he saw. The fair landscapes 
the prospects of goodly cities with the towers and spires of their 
Churches rising into the clear smokeless air; the stately houses 
and gardens, the life of the country villages, the fairs and markets, 
strolling players, the morris dancing, the drinking and smoking 
paities, the conjui-ors and mountebanks, peasants quarrelling 


CHAP. IV.] 


A ROMANCE. 


45 


“ together by the ears,” and buying and selling ; wandering 
beggars, and half-witted people called “Tom o’ Bedlams” who 
were a recognized order of mendicants—everything amused and 
delighted him, especially with his companion’s witty and pene¬ 
trating comments upon all they met with. 

At Windsor they walked on the terrace, from which Johnny 
saw the view, which was then considered only second to that of 
Greenwich, of the river and many pleasant hills and valleys, 
villages and fair houses, far and near. As they rode along, at 
every suitable opportunity, and at night after supper at the 
inns, the Jesuit explained to Johnny the position of public 
affairs. He told him that though the f)ower of the King and 
the Archbishop was apparently at its greatest height, as the 
trial and condemnation of Laud’s traducers, Prynne, Baswick, 
and Burton, had just been decided, and the trial of Hampden 
for refusal to pay ship-money was about to commence, yet 
nevertheless, the impossibility of governing without a Parliament 
was becoming so evident, and the violent and aggressive temper 
of the people was so marked, that he, and those like him, who 
possessed the best information of what was passing throughout 
all classes, and among all parties, however secret, considered 
that changes of a very remarkable character were imminent. 
The temper of the people, he said, was the more remarkable, 
because in the one case, libellers like Prynne would have been 
put to death without mercy in either of the preceding reigns, 
and no notice taken by the people; and the tax, called ship’s 
money, was so light and so fairly levied, as to be scarcely felt. 
The Archbishop, he said, was determined to force the service 
book upon the Scots; a most unwise and perilous proceeding 
at the present moment, and he was informed by the emissary 
priests then in the north of England and Scotland, that the 
resistance to it would be determined, and that the Scottish 
malcontents were supported by the Puritan party in the English. 
Parliament. Under these circumstances, he exjJained to Johnny 
that a change had taken place in the policy of some of the 
Roman Catholic party, wdio had formerly acted with Mr. Ingle- 
sant and Father St. Clare, and they had arrived at the conclu¬ 
sion that the Church of England v/as no longer worth the pains 
of humoui ing and conciliating. The Queen had been advised 
to attempt the perversion of tlie Parliamentary leaders, and 
several of tlie Catholic plottei-s had undertaken a similar enter- 


46 


JOHN inglesant; 


[chap. it. 


prise. Father St. Clare told Johnny candidly that he had 
neither sympathized entirely with these views nor altogether 
with those of the party to which he had hitherto belonged. 
On the one hand, he had arrived at the conclusion that Laud 
was a true servant of the Church of England, and would never 
consent to submission to Rome, except on terms which could 
not be granted, but on the other, he had so long regarded the 
Church as the natural ally of Rome, and the uselessness of 
attempting to win over the Puritans was so apparent, that he 
had not entered warmly into these new schemes. He, however, 
was inclined to think that were a change to take place, and the 
Puritan party to gain the supreme power in the State, the 
reaction among the upper classes would be so great, that the 
Romish faith wmuld gain numberless converts. He finally 
pressed upon Johnny the necessity of great prudence, telling 
him that he should be immediately placed about the person of 
the Queen as one of her pages; and, as soon as possible, trans¬ 
ferred to the King’s service in as high a post as the influence to 
be exerted could command, in order that he should possess as 
much influence as possible: that in the meantime his business 
would be simply to become acquainted with as many of all 
parties as he possibly could, and to gain their confidence, oppor¬ 
tunities for doing which should be given him both in the assem¬ 
blies he would meet at his father’s house, and in other company 
into which he should be introduced. He warned him against 
crediting anything he heard, unless assured of its truth by 
himself—the most exaggerated reports upon every subject, he 
said, prevailing in the Court and city. The conversions to 
Romanism, he told him, though numerous, were nothing like 
so many as were reported, as might be supposed when the 
reputed ones ijicluded such men as Mr. Endyniion Poiter, the 
most fiiithful servant of the King and a firm CEfTirch of England 
man, though, like many others, entertaining very firendly 
opinions of the Papists. 

Conversing in tliis way, they entered London one afternoon 
at the beginning of August 1637. Johnny, as may be supposed, 
was all eyes as they entered London, which they did by Ken¬ 
sington and St. James’s Park. The beautiful buildings at 
Kensington, and the tliro'ng of gentry and carriages in the park 
astonished him beyond measure. As they passed through the 
park many persons recognized Father St. Clare, but they passed 


CHAP, IV.] 


A ROMANCE. 


47 


on without stopping, through the gateway by the side of the 
beautiful banqueting-house into the narrow street that led by 
Chai'ing Cross and tlie Strand. The crowds were now of a 
different kind from those they had passed in the park. They 
passed several groups assembled round quack doctors and 
itinerant speakers, one of whom was relating how the congrega¬ 
tion of a Parish Church the Sunday before had been alarmed 
by an insurrection of armed Papists—stories of this kind being 
then a common invention to excite and stir up the people. At 
one of these groups they were startled by hearing a man who 
was selling books, announce the name as “Jesus’ Worship 
Confuted;” as the thing was new to the Jesuit, he stopped 
and ordered one of his men to dismount and bring him one, 
when it was found to be a tract against ceremonies, ami 
especially against bowing at the name of Jesus. They resumed 
their passage down the Strand, Father St. Clare remarking on 
the strange ideas a stranger would attach to the state of religion 
in England if he listened only to the opposing cries. All down 
the Strand the Jesuit pointed out the beautiful houses of the 
nobility, and the glimpses of the river between them. They 
stopped at last at Somerset House, then a large rambling series 
of buildings extending round several courts with gardens and 
walks on the river banks, and a handsome water-gate leading 
to the river. They went to the lodgings of Father Cory, the 
Queen’s confessor, who was at home, and received them hospit¬ 
ably. Johnny was so taken up with all the astonishing sights 
around him, especially with the wonderful view up and down 
the river, with the innumerable boats and barges, the palaces 
and gardens, and churches and steeples on the banks, that it 
was a day or two before he could talk or think calmly of any¬ 
thing. The next morning the Jesuit took him to his father’s 
house on the nPrth side of the Strand, where he saw both his 
father and brother, it not being the latter’s turn in waiting at 
the Court. Mr. Inglesant was not more affectionate to his son 
than usual; he appeared anxious and worn, but he told him he 
was pleased at his arrival, that he must obey Father St. Clare 
in all things, and that he would become a useful and successful 
man. Father St. Clare had sent for a Court tailor, and ordered 
a proper dress and accoutrements for Johnny, who was astonished 
at his own appearance when attired in lace and satin, and his 
long hair combed and dressed, ’i'he Jesuit legarded him with 


48 


JOHN INGLESANT ; 


[chap, IV. 


satisfaction, and told him they were going at once to the Queen. 
Mr. Inglesant’s coach was sent for them, and was waiting in one 
of the courts; and entering, they were driven through the Strand 
to Whitehall. 

It was the third of August, and the ArchbishoiD was marry¬ 
ing the Duke of Lennox to the Lady Mary Villiers, the daughter 
of the great Duke of Buckingham, in his Chapel at Lambeth. 
The King was expected to go to Lambeth to be present at the 
ceremony, but this was of no consequence to the Jesuit, who 
wished to introduce his prot^d to the Queen alone. When 
they reached Whitehall, however, they found that both their 
]\Iajestics had gone to the wedding, and the day being very 
rainy, news liad been sent from Lambeth immediately after the 
ceremony that the Queen was returning, aiad she was then on 
the water. The Jesuit and Johnny left their carriage and went 
down to the water-gate. The Jesuit was evidently well known 
at the Coiu't, and w^ay Was made for him everywhere. At that 
time the greatest laxity was allowed to the Catholics, and other 
priests besides the Queen’s confessors were tolerated openly in 
London. As they reached the water-gate, the rain had ceased 
for a time, and a gleam of sunlight shone upon the river, and 
rested on the Queen’s barge as it approached, Johnny’s heart 
beat with excitement, as it reached the steps amid a flomish of 
trumpets, and the guard presented arms. The Queen, splendidly 
dressed, came from under the awning and up the steps, accom¬ 
panied by her gentlemen and the ladies of her Court. Johnny 
never forgot the sight to his dying day, and it was doubtless one 
to be long remembered by those who saw it for the first time. 
When the Queen was near the top of the stairs and saw St. 
Clare, she stopped, and extending her hand she welcomed him 
to the Court. She seemed to remember something, and spoke 
to him rapidly in French, to which he replied with the utmost 
deference, in the same language. Then falling back, he indi¬ 
cated Johnny to the Queen, saying—“ This is young John Ingle- 
sant, yoiu' Majesty, of whom I spoke to your Grace concerning 
the business you wot of.” 

The Queen looked Idndl}’' at the boy, wdio indeed was hand¬ 
some enough to incline any woman in his favour. 

“ They are a handsome race,” she said, still speaking French ; 
“ this one, I think, still more so than his brother.” 

“This is a refined spii-ifc, yom* Majesty,” said the Jesuit, in 


CHAP. IV.] A ROaiANCE, 49 

a low voice, “of whom I hoiDe great things, if your Majesty will 
aid.” 

“You wish to be one of my servants, my pretty boy,” said 
the Queen, extending her hand to Jolinny, who kissed it on one 
knee ; “ Father Hall will tell you what to do.” 

And she passed on, followed by her train, who looked at St. 
Clare and the boy with curiosity, several nodding and speaking 
to the Jesuit as they proceeded. 

Johnny was duly entered the next day as one of the super¬ 
numerary pages without salary, and entered upon his duties at 
once, which consisted simply of waiting in anterooms and follow¬ 
ing the Queen at a distance in her walks. This life, however, 
was beyond measure interesting to Johnny : the beautiful rooms 
and galleries in the palace, with their wonderful contents, were 
an inexhaustible source of delight to him; especially the King’s 
collection of paintings which was kept in a single apartment, 
and was admired over Emope. Father Hall took him also to 
many gentlemen’s virtuoso collections of paintings and curiosities, 
where his intelligence and delight attracted the interest and 
kindness of all his hosts. Father St. Clare also gave him, from 
time to time, small editions of the classics and other books 
which he could keep in his pocket, and read in the anterooms 
and galleries when he was in waiting. He w^ould have been 
astonished, if the Jesuit had not told him it would be so, at the 
number of persons of all ranks and opinions in the Court, who 
spoke to him and endeavoured to make his acquaintance that- 
they might remember him at a future time, evidently at the 
request of the priest. 

Shortly after he came to London, he was present at the 
Chapel Royal, at Whitehall’, when the King took the sacrament 
and presented the gold pieces coined especially for this purpose. 
The sight impressed Johnny very much. The beautiful Chapel, 
the high altar on which candles were burning, the Bishops and 
the Dean of the Chapel in their copes, the brilliant crowd of 
courtiers, the King—devout and stately—alone before the altar, 
the exquisite music, and the singing of the King’s choir, which 
was not surpassed in Rome itself. As the sunlight from the 
stained windows fell on this wonderful scene, it is not surprising 
that young Inglesant was affected by it, nor that this young 
spirit looking out for the first time on the world and its siupris- 
ing scenes, and pageants, and symbols, realized the truth of 

E 


50 


JOHN inglesant; • 


[chap. IV. 


what the old Parson had told him, and converted all these sights 
into spiritual visions ) this one in particular, which led hack his 
thoughts, as it "was meant, to the three kings of old, who knelt 
and offered gifts before the mysterious Child. 

Johnny saw his brother frequently, as the latter had grown 
out of his page-hood, and held another po3t about the Court, which 
gave him much leisure. The two young courtiers were at this 
time more alike than ever, and were much admired at Court 
as a pair. At one of the Queen's Masques, about this time, 
they acted parts somewhat similar to the brothers in Comus, 
but requiring gTcater resemblance, as in Shakespeare's Comedy 
of Errors, and both tlieir acting and appearance was applauded 
by the King himself, who began to take notice of Johnny. Mr. 
Inglesant, the eider, had never been a favourite with the King, 
who was aware of his leaning to Popery, and indeed, at this 
time, botli lie and his friend the Jesuit were very much dis¬ 
couraged at the aspect of affairs. The position of the Papists 
had never been so good as at imesent, but this very circumstance 
was the ruin of their party. All restraints and reproaches of 
former times seemed forgotten ; a public agent from Rome 
resided openly at the Court, and was magnifeently feted and 
caressed ; the priests, though to avow popish ordei-s was by law 
punishable with death, went about and preached openly without 
fear; and it was related as a sign of the times, that a Jesuit 
at Paris who was coming into England, coolly called on the 
English ambassador there, who knew his jjrofession, ojfferiiig his 
services in London, as though there were no penal law to condemn 
him the moment he landed! High Mass at Somerset House 
was attended at noon-day by great numbers of the Papists, who 
returned together from it through the streets as openly as the 
congregation of the Savoy, and the neighbouring churches. 
Their priests succeeded in converting several ladies of some of 
the greatest families, thereby provoking the anger of their rela¬ 
tions, and causing them to long for their suppression. They 
held large political conferences openly, and ostentatiously sub¬ 
scribed a large sum of money to assist the King against the 
Scots. Clarendon, indeed, says that they acted as though they 
had been suborned by these latter to root out their own religion. 

It would seem, indeed, that the English mind is not habitu¬ 
ated to plotting, and that the majority of any party are not 
equal to a sustained and concealed effort. The Jesuit, Mr. 


CHAP, n’.] 


A ROMANCE. 


51 


Inglesant, and the other astute members of their party, per¬ 
ceived with sorrow the course things were taking without being 
able to remedy it. The former desisted from all active efforts, 
contenting himself with assisting the Queen in her attempts to 
win over members of the Parliament to her interest, and in 
opposing and counteracting the intrigues of a small and fanatical 
section of the Papists who were attempting a wild and insane 
plot against the King and the Archbishop, which was said to 
extend to even the attempting their death. As neither of these 
occupations wns very arduous, he had little need of Johnny’s 
• assistance, and left him very much to himself. Inglesant, there¬ 
fore, continued the cultivation of his acquaintance with both 
parties pretty much in his own way. He had several friends 
whose society he much valued among the Papists, and he fre¬ 
quently attended mass when not obliged to by his attendance 
upon the Queen; but he was rather more inclined to attach 
himself to the members of tlie Laudian and High Church party, 
who presented many qualities which in;;erested and attracted 
him. He read with delight tlie books of this party. Dr. Donne’s 
and Herbert’s Poems, and the writings of Andrews and Bishop 
Cosin’s Devotions, which last was much disliked by the Puritans, 
and, indeed, the course he took could not have been more in 
accordance with the Jesuit’s plan of preparing him for future 
service, should the time ever arrive when such usefulness should 
be required. In his mind he was still devoted, though in a 
halting and imperfect manner, to that pursuit of the spiritual 
life and purity wliich had attracted him when so young, and he 
lost no opportunity of consulting any on these mysterious sub¬ 
jects wP.o he tliought would sympathize with his ideas. In this 
he had no assistance from his brother, who was devoted to the 
pursuit of pleasure—of worldly pleasure, it is true, in its most 
refined aspect—but still of such pleasures as are entirely apart 
from those of the soul. 

One of his friends had presented Inglesant with a little 
book, “ Divine Considerations of those things most profitable in 
our Christian profession,” written in Spanish by Jolin Valdesso, 
a Papist, and translated by a gentleman of whom Johnny heard 
a great deal, and was exceedingly interested in what he heard. 
In this book the author says several very higli and beautiful 
tilings concerning the Spiritual life, and of the gindual illuinina- 
tiou of the Divine Light shed iqion the mind, as the sun breaks 


52 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap. IV. 


by degrees upon the eyes of a traveller in the dark. But though 
Johnny was attracted to the book itself, he was principally 
interested in it by what he heard of the translator. This was 
Mr. Nicholas Ferrar, who had founded a religious house at 
Little Gidding, in Huntingdonshire, or, as it was called in the 
world, the “Protestant Nimuer}’,” in which he lived with his 
mother and several nephews and nieces, in the practice of good 
works and the worship of God. Extraordinary attention had 
been attracted to this establishment by the accounts of the 
strange and holy life of its inmates; and still more by the 
notice which the King had condescended to take of it, not only* 
visiting it on his journey to Scotland, in 1633, but also request¬ 
ing and accepting presents of devotional books, which it was 
part of the occupation of the family to prepare. 

The accounts of this religious house, and of the family within 
it, so excited Johnny’s imagination that he became exceedingly 
desirous to see it, especially as it was said that Mr. Ferrar was 
very infirm, and was not expected to survive very long. 

It was late in the autumn when he made this visit, about 
two months before Mr. Ferrar’s death. The rich autumn foliage 
v'as lighted by the low sun as he rode through the woods 
and meadows, and across the sluggish streams of Bedford and 
Huntingdon. He slept at a village a few miles south of Little 
Gidding, and reached that place early in the day. It was a 
solitary, wooded place, with a large manor house, and a little 
Church close by. It had been for some time depopulated, and 
there were no cottages nor houses near. The manor house and 
Church had been restored to perfect order by Mr. Ferrar, and 
Inglesant reached it through a grove of trees planted in walks, 
with latticed paths and gardens on both sides. A brook crossed 
the road at the foot of the gentle ascent on which the house 
was built. He asked to see Mr. Ferrar, and was shown by a 
man-servant into a fair spacious parlour, where Mr. Ferrar 
presently came to him. Inglesant was disappointed at his 
ap])earance, which was plain and not striking in any way, but 
his speech was able and attractive. Johnny apologized for his 
bold visit, telling him how much taken he had been by his book, 
-and by what he had heard of him and his family; and that 
what he had heard did not interest him merely out of curiosity, 
as he feared it might have done many, but out of sincere desire 
to learn something of the holy life which doubtless that family 


CHAP. IV.] 


A ROSIANCE. 


63 


led. To this Mr. Ferrar replied that he was thankful to see 
any one who came in such a spirit, and that several, not only 
of his own friends, as Mr. Crashaw the poet, but many young 
students from the University at Cambridge came to see him in 
a like spirit, to the benefit, he hoped, of both themselves and of 
him. He said with great humility, that although on the one 
hand very much evil had been spoken of him which was not 
true, he had no doubt that, on the other, many things had been 
said about their holiness and the good that they did which went 
far beyond the truth. For his own part, he said he had adopted 
that manner of life through having long seen enough of the 
manners and vanities of the world; and holding them in low 
esteem, was resolved to spend the best of his life in mortifications 
and devotion, in charity, and in constant preparation for death. 
That his mother, his elder brother, his sisters, his nephews and 
nieces, being content to lead this mortified life, they spent their 
time in acts of devotion and by doing such good works as were 
within their power, such as keeping a school for the chilcben of 
the next parishes, for teaching of whom he provided three 
masters who lived constantly in the house. That for ten years 
they had lived this harmless life, under the care of his mother, 
who had trained her daughters and grand-daughters to every 
good work; but two years ago they had lost her by death, and 
as his health was very feeble he did not expect long to be sepa¬ 
rated from her, but looked forward to his departiu*e with joy, 
being afraid of the evil times he saw approaching. 

When he had said this, he led Inglesant into a large hand¬ 
some room upstairs, where he introduced him to his sister, Mrs. 
Collet, and her daughters, who were engaged in making those 
curious books of Scriptime Harmonies which had so pleased 
King Charles. These seven yoimg ladies, who formed the 
junior part of the Society of the house, and were called by the 
names of the chief virtues, the Patient, the Cheerful, the Affec¬ 
tionate, the Submiss, the Obedient, the Moderate, the Charitable, 
were engaged at that moment in cutting out passages from two 
Testaments, which they pasted together so neatly as to seem 
one book, and in such a manner as to enable the reader to follow 
the narrative in all its particulars from beginning to end without^ 
a break, and also to see which of the sacred authors had contri¬ 
buted any particular part. 

Inglesant told the ladies what fame reported of the nuns of 


54 


JOHN inglesant; 


[chap. IV. 


Giclding, of two watching and praying all night, of their can¬ 
onical hours, of their crosses on the outside and inside of their 
Chapel, of an altar there richly decked with plate, tapestry, and 
tapers, of their adoration and genuflexions at their entering. 
He told Mr. Ferrar that his object in visiting him was chiefly 
to kno w his opinion of the Papists and their religion, as, having 
been bred among them himself and being very nearly one of 
them, he was anxious to know the opinions of one who was 
said to hold many of their doctrines without joining them or 
approving them. Mr. Ferrar appeared at first shy of speaking, 
but being apparently convinced of the young man’s sincerity, 
and that he was not an enemy in disguise, he conversed very 
freely with him for some time, speaking much of the love of 
God, and of the vanity of worldly things; of his dear friend 
Mr. George Herbert, and of his saintly life; of the confused 
and troublesome life he had formerly led, and of the great peace 
and satisfaction which he had found since he had left the world 
and betaken himself to that retired and religious life. That, 
as regards the Papists, his translating Valdessa’s book was a 
proof that he knew that among them, as among all people, 
there were many true worshippers of Jesus, being di'awn by the 
blessed Sacrament to follow him in the spiritual and divine life, 
and that there were many things in that book similar to the 
mystical religion of which Inglesant spoke, which liis dear 
friend Mr. George Herbert had disapproved, as exalting the 
inward spiritual life above the foundation of holy Scripture: 
that it was not for him, who was only a deacon in the Church, 
to pronounce any opinion on so dilficult a point, and that he 
had printed all Mr. Herbert’s notes in his book, without com¬ 
ment of his own : that though he was thus unwilling to give 
his own judgment, he certainly believed that this inward spirit¬ 
ual life was open to all men, and recommended Inglesant to 
continue his endeavours after it, seeking it chiefly in the holy 
Sacrament accompanied with mortification and confession. 

^ While they were thus talking, the hour of evening prayer 
arrived, and Mr. Ferrar invited Johnny to accompany him to 
the Church; which he gladly did, being very much attracted 
by the evident holiness which pervaded Mr. Ferrar’s talk and 
manner. The family proceeded to Church in procession, Mr. 
Ferrar and Inglesant walking first. The Church was kept in 
great order, the altar being placed upon a raised platform at 


CHAP. IV.] 


A ROMANCE. 


55 


the east end, and covered with tapestry stretching over the floor 
all round it, and adorned with plate and tapers. Mr. Ferrar 
bowed with great reverenee several times on approaching the 
altar, and directed Inglesant to sit in a stalled seat opposite the 
reading pew, from which he said the evening prayer. The men 
of the family knelt on the raised step before the altar, the ladies 
and servants sitting in the body of the Church. The Church 
was very sweet, being decked with flowers and herbs; and the 
soft autumn light rested over it. From the seat where Ingle¬ 
sant knelt, he could see the faces of the girls as they bent over 
their books at prayers. They were all in black, except one, who 
wore a friar’s grey gown; this was the one who was called the 
Patient, as Inglesant had been told in the house, and the singu¬ 
larity of her di'ess attracted his eye towards her during the 
prayers. The whole seene, strange and romantic as it appeared 
to him, the devout and serious manner of the woi-shippers— 
very different from much that was common in churches at that 
day—and the abstracted and devout look upon the faces of the 
girls struck his fancy, so liable to such influences, and so long 
trained to welcome them; and he could not keep his eyes from 
this one face from which the grey hood was partly thrown back. 
It was a passive face, with well-cut delicate featiues, and large 
and quiet eyes. 

Prayers being over, the ladies saluted Inglesant from a 
distance, and left the Chm’ch with the rest, in the same order 
as they had come, leaving Mr. Ferrar and Johnny alone. They 
remained some time discoursing on worship and Church cere¬ 
monies, and then returned to the house. It was now late, and 
Mr. Ferrar, who was evidently much pleased with his guest, 
invited him to stay the night, and even extended his hospitality 
by asking him to stay over the next, which was Saturday, and 
the Sunday, upon which, as it was the first Sunday in the 
month, the holy Sacrament would be administered, and several 
of Mr. Ferrar’s friends from Cambridge would come over and 
partake of it, and to pass the night and day in prayer and acts 
of devotion. To this proposition Inglesant gladly consented, 
the whole proceeding appearing to him full of interest and 
attraction. Soon after they returned to the house supper was 
served, all the family sitting down together at a long table in 
the hall. During supper some portion of Foxe’s book of the 
Mai’tyrs was read aloud. Afterwards two hours were permitted 


56 JOHN INGLESANT: [CHAF. IV. 

fcr diversion, during which all were allowed to do as they 
pleased. 

The young ladies having found out that Inglesant was a 
Queen’s page, were very curious to hear of the Court and royal 
family from him, which innocent request Mr. Ferrar encouraged, 
and joined in himself. One reason of the success with which 
his mother and he had ruled this household appears to have 
been his skill in interesting and attracting all its inmates by 
the variety and pleasant character of their occupations. He 
was also much interested himself in what Johimy told him, for 
in this secluded ftimily, themselves accustomed to prudence, 
Inglesant felt he might safely speak of many things upon which 
he was generally silent; and after prayers, when the family were 
retired to their several rooms, Mr. Ferrar remained with him 
some time, while Johnny related to him the aspect of religious 
parties at the moment, and particularly all that he could tell, 
without violating confidence, of the Papists and of his friend 
the Jesuit. 

The next morning they rose at four, though two of the 
family had been at prayer all night, and did not go to rest till 
the others rose. They went into the oratory in the house 
itself to prayers, for they kept six times of prayer during the 
day. At six they said the psalms of the hour, for every hour 
had its approju’iate psalms, and at half-past six went to Church 
for matins. AVhen they retimned at seven o’clock, they said 
the psalms of the hour, sang a short hymn, and went to break¬ 
fast. After breakfiist, when the younger members of the family 
were at their studies, Mr. Ferrar took Inglesant to the school, 
where all the children in the neighbourhood were permitted to 
come. At eleven they went to dinner, and after dinner there 
was no settled occupation till one, every one being allowed to 
amuse himself as he chose. The young ladies had been trained 
not only to superintend the house, but to wait on any sick 
persons in the neighbourhood who came to the house at certain 
times for assistance, and to dress the wounds of those who were 
hurt, in order to give them readiness and skill in this employ¬ 
ment, and to habituate them to the virtues of humility and 
tenderness of heart. A large room was set apart for this pur¬ 
pose, where Mr. Ferrar had instructed them in the necessary 
skill, having been himself Physic Fellow at Clare Hall, in 
Cambridge, and under the celebrated Professors at Padua, in 


CHAP. IV.] 


A ROIklANCE. 


57 


Italy. This room Inglesant requested to see, thinking that he 
should in this way also see something of and be able to speak 
to the young ladies, whose acquaintance he had hitherto not had 
much opportunity of cultivating. ]\Ir. Ferrar told his nephew 
to show it him—young Nicholas Ferrar, a young man of extra¬ 
ordinary skill in languages, wdio was afterwards introduced to 
the King and Prince Charles, some time before his early death. 
When they entered the room Inglesant was delighted to find 
that the only member of the family there was the young lady 
in the Grey Friar’s habit, whose face, had attracted him so 
much in Chm-ch. She was listening to the long tiresome tale 
of an old woman, following the example of George Herbert, 
who thought on a similar occasion, that “it was some relief to 
a poor body to be heard with patience.” 

Johnny, who in spite of his Jesuitical and Court training 
was naturally modest, and whose sense of religion made him 
perfectly well-bred, accosted the young lady very seriously, and 
expressed his gratitude at having been permitted to stay and 
see so many excellent and improving things as that family had 
to show. The liking which the head of the house had evidently 
taken for Inglesant disposed the younger members in his favour, 
and the young lady answered him simply and luiatfectedly, but 
with manifest pleasure. 

Inglesant inquired concerning the assumed names of the 
sisters and how they sustained their respective qualities, and 
what exercises suited to these qualities they had to perform. 
She replied that they had exercises, or discourses, which they 
performed at the great festivals of the year, Christmas and 
Faster; and which were composed with reference to their 
several qualities. All of these, except her own, were enlivened 
by hymns and odes composed by Mr. Ferrar, and set to music 
by the music master of the famil}^ who accompanied the voices 
with the viol or the lute. But her own, she said, had never 
any music or poetry connected with it; it was always of a very 
serious turn, and much longer than any other, and had not any 
historical anecdote or fable interwoven with it, the contrivance 
being to exercise that virtue to which she was devoted. Ingle- 
sant'asked her with pity if this was not very hard Heatment, 
and she only replied, with a smile, that she had the enjoyment 
of all the lively performances of the others. He asked her 
whether they looked forward to passing all their lives in this 


58 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[cnAP. IV 


manner, or whether they allowed the possibility of any change, 
and if she had entirely lost her own name in her assumed one, 
or whether he might presume to ask it, that he might have 
wherewithal to remember her by, as he siuely should as long as 
he had life. She said her name was Mary Collet; and that as 
to his former question, two of her sisters had had, at one time, 
a great desire to become veiled virgins, to take upon them a 
vow of perpetual chastity, with the solemnity of a Bishop’s 
blessing and ratification, but on going to Bishop Williams he 
had discouraged, and at last dissuaded them from it. 

Inglesant and the young lady remained talking in this way 
for some time, young Nicholas Ferrar having left them; but at 
last she excused herself from staying any longer, and he was 
obliged to let her go. He ventimed to say that he hoped they 
would remember him, that he was utterly ignorant of the future 
that lay before him, but that whatever fate awaited him, he 
should never forget the “Nuns of Gidding” and their religious life. 
She replied that they would certainly remember him, as they did 
all their acquaintances, in their daily prayer, especially as she had 
seldom seen her uncle so pleased with a stranger as he had been 
with him. With these compliments they parted, and Inglesant 
returned to the drawing-room, where more visitors had arrived. 

In the afternoon there came from Cambridge Mr. Crashaw 
the poet, of Peterhouse, who afterwards went over to the 
Papists, and died Canon of Loretto, and several gentlemen, 
undergraduates of Cambridge, to spend the Sunday at Gidding, 
being the first Sunday of the month. Mr. Crashaw, when 
Inglesant was introduced to him as one of the Queen’s pages, 
finding that he was acquainted with many Roman Catholics, 
was very friendly, and conversed with him apart. He said lie 
conceived a great admiration for the devout lives of the Catholic 
saints, and of the government and discipline of the Catholic 
Church, and that he feared that the English Church had not 
sutficient authority to resist the spread of Presbyterianism, in 
which case he saw no safety except in returning to the com¬ 
munion of Rome. Walking up and down the garden paths, 
after evening prayers in Church, he spoke a great deal on this 
subject, and on the .beauty of a retired religious life, saying 
that here at Little Gidding and at Little St. Marie’s Church, 
near to Peterhouse, he had passed the most blissful moments 
of his life, watching at midnight in prayer and meditation. 


CHAP. IV.] 


A ROMANCR 


59 


That night Mr. Crashaw, Inglesant, and one or two others, 
remained in the Church from nine till twelve, during which time 
they said over the whole Book of Psalms in the way of anti¬ 
phony, one repeating one verse and the rest the other. The time 
of their watch being ended they returned to the house, went to 
Mr. Ferrar’s door and bade him good-morrow, leaving a lighted 
candle for him. They then went to bed, but Mr. Ferrar arose 
according to the passage of Scripture “ at midnight I will arise 
and give thanks,” and went into the Church, where he betook 
himself to religious meditation. 

Early on the Sunday morning the family were astir and 
said prayers in the oratory. After breakfast many people from 
the country around and more than a hundred children came in. 
These children were called the Psalm children, and were regu¬ 
larly trained to repeat the Psalter, and the best voices among 
them to assist in the service on Sundays. They came in every 
Sunday, and according to the proficiency of each were i^resented 
with a small piece of money, and the whole number entertained 
with a dinner after Church. The Church was crowded at the 
morning service before the Sacrament. The service was beauti¬ 
fully sung, the whole family taking the greatest delight in Church 
music, and many of the gentlemen from Cambridge being ama¬ 
teurs. The Sacrament was administered with the greatest 
devotion and solemnity. Impressed as he had been with the 
occupation of the preceding day and night, and his mind excited 
with watching and want of sleep and with the exquisite strains 
of the music, the effect upon Inglesant’s imaginative nature was 
excessive. Above the altar, which was profusely bedecked with 
flowers, the antique glass of the east window, which had been 
carefully repaired, contained a figure of the Saviour of an early 
and severe type. The form was gracious and yet commanding, 
having a brilliant halo round the head, and being clothed in a 
long and apparently seamless coat; the two fore-fingers of the 
right hand were held up to bless. Kneeling upon the half-pace, 
as he received the sacred bread and tasted the holy wine, this 
gracious figure entered into Inglesant’s soul, and stillness and 
peace unspeakable, and life, and light, and sweetness, filled his 
mind. He was lost in a sense of rapture, and earth and all 
that surrounded him faded away. When he returned a little to 
himself, kneeling in his seat in the Church, he thought that at 
no period of his life, however extended, should he ever forget 


60 


JOHN 3NGLESANT; 


[chap. IV. 


that morning or lose the sense and feeling of that touching scene, 
of that gracious figiu'e over tl e altar, of the bowed and kneeling 
figures, of the misty autumn sunlight and the sweeping autu: ’U 
wind. Heaven itself seemed to have opened to him, and one 
fairer than the fairest of the angelic hosts to have come down 
to earth. 

After the service, the family and all the visitors returned to 
the mansion house in the order in which they had come, and the 
Psalm children were entertained with a dinner in the great hall; 
all the family and visitors came in to see them served, and Mrs. 
Collet, as her mother had always done, placed the first dish on 
the table herself to give an example of humility. Grace having 
been said, the bell rang for the dinner of the family, who, together 
with the visitors, repaired to the great dining-room, and stood in 
order round the table. While the dinner Avas being served they 
sang a hymn accompanied by the organ at the upper end of the 
room. Then grace w\as said by the Priest w'ho had celebrated 
the communion, and they sat dowm. All the servants who had 
received the Sacrament that day sat at table with the rest. 
During dinner one of the young people whose turn it w^as, read 
a chapter from the Bible, and when that was finished conversa¬ 
tion was allowed; Mr. Ferrar and some of the other gentlemen 
endeavouring to make it of a character suitable to the day, and 
to the service they had just taken part in. After dinner they 
went to Church again for evening prayer; between wdiich service 
and supper Inglesant had some talk with Mr. Ferrar concerning 
the Papists and Mr. Crashaw’s opinion of them. 

“ I ought to be a fit person to advise you,” said Mr. Ferrar 
with a melancholy smile, “ for I am myself, as it were, crushed 
between the upper and nether millstone of contrary reports, for 
I suffer eqital obloquy—and no martyrdom is worse than that 
of continual obloquy—both for being a Papist and a Puritan. 
You will suppose there must be some strong reason why I, who 
value so many things among the Papists so much, have not 
joined them myself. I should probably have escaped much vio¬ 
lent invective if I had done so. You are very young, and are 
placed where you can see and judge of both parties. You pos¬ 
sess sufficient insight to try the spirits whether they be of God. 
Be not hasty to decide, and before you decide to join the Romish 
communion, make a tour abroad, and if you can, go to Rome 
itself. When I was in Italy and Spain, I made all the inquiries 


A ROIklANCE. 


61 


CHAP. V.] 

and researches I conld. I bought many scarce and valuable 
books in the languages of those countries, in collecting which I 
ha^life, principal eye to those which treated on the subjects of 
spiritual life, devotion, and religious retirement, but the result 
of all was that I am now, and I shall die, as I believe and hope 
shortly, in the Communion of the English Church. This day, 
as I believe, the blessed Sacrament has been in the Church 
before our eyes, and what can you or I desire more?” 

The next morning before Inglesant left, Mr. Ferrar showed 
him his foreign collections, his great treasure of rarities and of 
prints of the best masters of that time, mostly relative to his¬ 
torical passages of the Old and New Testaments. Inglesant 
dined with the family, of whom he took leave with a full heart, 
saluting the ladies with the pleasant familiarity which the 
manners of tlie time permitted. Mr. Ferrar went with him to 
the borders of the parish, and gave him his blessing. They 
never saw each other again, for two months afterw^ards Nicholas 
Ferrar W'as in his grave. 


CHAPTER V. 

The next year of Inglesant’s life contained several incidents 
W'hich had very important results. The first of these w^as the 
illness and death of his father, which occurred shortly after 
Johnny’s return to London. His end w^as doubtless hastened 
by the perplexity and disappointment of many of his political 
projects, for his life in many respects was a failure. Though a 
rich man he had spent large sums in his political intrigues, and 
the property he left w^as not large. His lands and all his money 
he left to his eldest son, but he left Johnny some houses in 
the city, w'hich Inglesant was advised to sell. He therefore 
disposed of them to a Parliament man, and deposited the money 
wdth a goldsmith to be ready in case of need. The possession 
of this money made him an important person, and he was 
advised to purchase a place about the Court, which, wdtli his 
interest with the Queen’s advisers, would secure his success in 
life. He endeavoured to act on this advice, but it was some 
time before he was successful. 

After’ his return to London Inglesant saw Mr. Crasliaw 


62 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap. V. 


two or three times, when that gentleman was in London, and 
his conversation led him to think more of the Roman Catholics 
than he had hitherto done, and inclined him more and more to 
join tliem. Nothing wouid have recommended him so much to 
the Queen as such a step, and his feelings and sympathies all 
led him the same way. He was exceedingly disgusted with the 
conduct and conversation of the Puritans, and the extreme 
lengths to which it was evident they were endeavoui'ing to 
drive the people. ]\Iost of his friends, even those who w^ere 
themselves sound Churchmen, looked favourably on the Papists, 
and it was thought the height of ill breeding to speak against 
them at Court. It is probable, therefore, that Inglesant would 
have joined them openly but for two very opposite causes. The 
one was his remembrance of the Sacrament at Little Gidding, 
the other was the influence of his friend the Jesuit. The first 
of these prevented that craving after the sacrifice of the Mass, 
which doubtless is the strongest of all the motives which lead 
men to Rome; the other was exerted several ways. 

It was one of the political maxims of this man that he never, 
if possible, allowed anything he had gained or any mode of in¬ 
fluence he had acquired to be lost or neglected, even though 
circumstances had rendered it useless for the particular purpose 
for which he had at first intended it. In the present case he 
had no intention of permitting all the care and pains he had 
been at in Inglesant’s education to be throwm away. It is true 
the exact use to which he had intended to devote the talents 
he had thus trained no longer existed, but this did not prevent 
his appreciating the exquisite fitness of the instrument he had 
prepared for such or similar use. Circumstances had occurred 
which in his far-seeing policy made the Church of England 
scarcely worth gaining to the Catholic side, but in proportion 
as the Church might cease to be one of the great powers in the 
country, the Papists would step into its place: and in the con¬ 
fused political struggles which he foresaw, the Jesuit anticipated 
ample occupation for the peculiar properties of his pupil. In 
the event of a struggle, the termination of which none could 
foresee, a qualified agent would be required as much between 
the Papists and the popular leaders as between tlie Catholics 
and the Royal and Church party. Acting on these principles, 
therefore, the Jesuit was far from losing sight of Inglesant, or 
even neglecting him. So far indeed was he from doing so, that 


CHAP. V.J 


A ROMANCE. 


63 


lie was acquainted with most that passed through his mind, and 
was well aware of his increased attraction towards the Church 
to which he himself belonged. Now for Inglesant to have 
become actively and enthusiastically a Papist would at once 
have defeated all his plans for him, and rendered him useless 
for the peculiar needs for which he had been prepared. He 
would doubtless have gone abroad, and even if he had not re¬ 
mained buried in some college on the Continent, he would have 
returned merely as one of those mission priests (for doubtless he 
would have taken orders) of whom the Jesuit had already more 
than he required. It was even not desirable that he should 
associate exclusively with Papists. He was already sufficiently 
known and his position understood among them for the purposes 
of any future mission on which he might be engaged; and it 
would be more to the purpose for him to extend his acquaintance 
among Church of England people, and gain their confidence. 
To this end the Jesuit thought proper to remove him from the 
immediate attendance on the Queen, where he saw few except 
Papists, and to assist in his endeavours to purchase a place 
about the King’s person. In this he was successful, and about 
the end of 1639 Inglesant purchased the place of one of the 
Esquires of the Body who relinquished his place on account of 
ill health. This po>t, which followed immediately after that of 
the gentlemen of the Privy Chamber, was looked upon as a 
very important and influential one, and cost Inglesant a large 
sum of money before he obtained it. He was, as we have seen, 
rather a favourite with the King, who had noticed him more 
than once, and he began to be regarded as a rising courtier 
whose friendship it would be well to keep. 

When the Jesuit had seen him settled in his new post, he 
put in motion another and still more powerful engine which he 
had prepared for preventing his pupil from joining the Romish 
Church. He had himself inculcated as much as possible a 
broad and philosophical method of thought upon his pupil, but 
he was necessarily confined and obstructed in this direction by 
his own position and supposed orthodoxy, and he was therefore 
anxious to infuse into Inglesant’s mind a larger element of 
rational inquiry than in his sacred character it was possible for 
him to accomplish without shocking his pupil’s moral sense. If 
I have not failed altogether in representing that pupil’s charac¬ 
ter; it will have been noticed that it was one of those which 


64 JOHN INGLESANT; [OHAP. V. 

combine activity of thought with gxeat faculty of reverence and 
of sabmission to those powers to which its fancy and taste are 
subordinated. Th6«e natures are enthusiastic, though generally 
not supposed to be so, and though little sign of it appears in 
their outward conduct; for the objects of their enthusiasm being 
generally different from those which attract most men, they are 
conscious that they have little sympathy to expect in their pur¬ 
suit of them, and this gives their enthusiasm a reserved and cau¬ 
tious demeanour. They are not, however, blindly enthusiastic, 
but are never satisfied till they have found some theory by which 
they are able to reconcile in their own minds the widest results 
to which their activity of thought has led them, with the sub¬ 
mission and service which it is their delight and choice to pay 
to such outward systems and authorities as have pleased and 
attracted their taste. This theory consists generally in some, 
at times half-formed, conception of the imperfect dispensation 
in which men live, which makes obedience to authority, with 
which the most exalted reason cannot entirely sympathize, 
becoming and even necessary. This feeling more than any¬ 
thing else, gives to persons of this nature a demeanour quite 
different from that of the ordinary religious or political enthusi¬ 
ast, a demeanour seemingly cold and indifferent, though coim- 
teous and even to some extent sjnnpathetic, and which causes 
the true fanatic to esteem them as little better than the mere 
man of the world, or the minion of courtly power. The 
enthusiastic part of his character had been fully cultivated in 
Inglesant, the reasoning and philosophic part had been wakened 
and trained to some extent by his readings in Plato under the 
direction of the Jesuit; it remained now to be still more 
developed, whether to the ultimate improvement of his charac¬ 
ter it would be hard to say. 

The Jesuit took him one day into the city to Devonshire 
House, where, inquiring for Mr. Hobbes, they were shown into 
a large handsome room full of books, where a gentleman was 
sitting whose appearance struck Inglesant very much. He was 
tall and very erect, with a square,mallet-shaped head and ample 
forehead. He wore a small red moustache, that curled upward, 
and a small tuft of hair upon his chin. His eyes w'ere hazel 
and full of life and spirit, and when he spoke they shone with 
lively light; when he was witty and laughed the lids closed 
over them so that they could scai'cely be seen, but when he 


CHAP. V.] 


A ROMANCE. 


65 


was serious and in earnest they expanded to their Ml orb, and 
penetrated, as it seemed, to the farthest limit of thought. He 
was dressed in a coat of black velvet lined Avith fur, and wore 
long boots of Spanish leather laced with ribbon. 

When the first compliments were over, the Jesuit introduced 
Inglesant to him as a young gentleman of promise, Avho Avould 
derive great benefit from his acquaintance, and Avhose friendship 
he hoped might not prove unacceptable to IMr. Hobbes. 

Inglesant came often to Mr. Hobbes, whose conversation 
delighted him. It frequently referred to the occurrences of the 
day, in which Mr. Hobbes sided with the Government, having 
a great regard for the King personally, as had Harrington after- 
Avards, and most of the philosophers—all their sympathies and 
theories being on the side of laAv and strong government; but 
their discourse frequently went beyond this, and embraced those 
questions of human existence which interest thinking men. He 
soon found out Inglesant’s tendency towards Catholicism, and 
strongly dissuaded him from it. 

“Your idea of the Catholic system,” he said, “is a dream, 
and has no real existence among the Papists. Your ideal is an 
exalted Platonic manifestation of the divine existence diffused 
among men: the reality is a system of mean trivial details, 
wearisome and disgusting to such men as you are. Instead of 
the perfect communion with the Divine Light, such as you seek, 
you will have before you and above you nothing but the narrow 
conceptions of some ignorant priest to whom you must submit 
your intellect. What freedom of thought or existence will re¬ 
main to you when you have fully accepted the article of transub- 
stantiation, and truly believe that the priest is able of a piece 
of bread to make absolutely and unconditionally oiu* Saviour’s 
body, and thereby at the hour of death to save your souH Will 
it not have an effect upon you to make you think him a god, 
and to stand in awe of him as of God Himself if he were visibly 
present 

“ I suppose it would,” said Inglesant. 

“ One of our divines of the English Church, Avriting much 
above their Avont—for they are much stronger in their lives than 
in their Avritings—puts this very plainly in the matter of the 
judgment of the priest in confession. ‘Yet this extorted con¬ 
fession on Pain of Damnation is not the stripping a man to his 
naked body, but the stripping him of his body, that they may 

F 


66 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap. V. 


see liis naked heart, and so, by the force of this superstition, 
break into those secrets, which it is the only due privilege of 
Almighty God to be acquainted with, who is the only rightful 
Searcher of hearts.’ These men may well pretend to be followers 
of Aristotle, who reason only from the names of things, accord¬ 
ing to the scale of the Categories; but of those of the better 
sort, as you and I take ourselves to be, who follow Plato, and 
found our doctrine on the conceptions and ideas of things, we 
must ever submit to be called heretics by them as a reproach, 
though we, doubtless, and not they, are the true sacramentalists, 
that is, the seekers for the hidden and the divine truth. It is 
for this reason that I take the Sacrament in the English Church, 
which I call in England the Holy Church, and believe that its 
statutes are the true Christian Faith.” 

“ There seems to me,” he went on after a pause, “something 
frightfidly grotesque about the Romish Church as a reality. 
Showing us on the one side a mass of fooleries and ridiculous 
conceits and practices, at which, but for the use of them, all 
men must needs stand amazed; such rabble of impossible relics, 

•—the hay that was in the manger, and more than one tail of 
the ass on which Christ rode into Jerusalem, besides hundreds 
which for common decency no man in any other case would so 
much as name. To look on these, I say, on one side, and on 
the other to see those frightful and intolerable cruelties, so 
detestable that they cannot be named, by which thousands have 
been tormented by this holy and pure Church, has something 
about it so grotesque and fantastic that it seems to me some¬ 
times more like some masque or dance of satyrs or devils than 
the followers of our Saviour Christ.” 

“ All this,” said Inglesant, “ I partly believe, yet I imagine 
that something may be said upon the other side of the argument, 
and I should suppose that there is not one of these doctrines 
and practices but what has some shadow of truth in it, and 
sprang at first from the wellspring of truth.” 

“Doubtless,” said the philosopher, “there is nothing but 
has had its origin in some conception of the truth, but are we 
‘ for this cause,’ as that same divine says, ‘ also to forsake the 
Truth itself, and devotionally prostrate ourselves to every 
evanescent and far-cast show of Him—shadows of shadows 
—in infinite myriads of degenerations from Him?’ Surely 
not.” 


CHAP. V.] A ROMANCR 67 

“ What is truth 1 ” said Inglesant; “ who shall show us 
any good 

“ Truth,” said the philosopher, “is that which we have been 
taught, that which the civil govcrninent under which we live 
instructs us in and directs us to believe, Oitr Saviour Christ 
came as the Messiah to establish His kingdom on earth, and 
after Him the Apostles and Christian Princes and Common¬ 
wealths have handed dowm His truth to us. This is om- only 
safe method of belief.” 

“ But should we believe nothing of Cliristianity,” said Ingle¬ 
sant, “unless the civil government had taught it us?” 

“How can you believe anything,” said Hobbes, “unless 
you have first been taught it? and in a Cliristian Common¬ 
wealth the civil government is the vicar of Christ. I know the 
Jesuits,” said Hobbes, “ and they me ; when I was in France, 
some of them came to trouble me about something I liad said. 
I quieted them by promising to write a book ui^on them if they 
did not let me be : what they seek is influence over the minds 
of men; to gain this they will allow every vice of wdiich man 
is capable. I could prove it from their books. It is not for 
me, whom you scarcely know, to say anything against a friend 
whom you have known so long; but, as I understand you, your 
friend does not advise you to become a Papist. I do not sup¬ 
pose, though possibly you may do so, that he has no other 
object in view than your w^elfare. He has doubtless far-reach¬ 
ing reasons of which we know nothing; nevertheless, be not 
distrustful of him, but in this especially follow his advice. 
Shakespeare, the play-writer, says ‘there’s a divinity that 
shapes our ends,’ or, I should say, the ends that others work 
out for us, to His higher purpose. Let us have faith in this 
beneficent Artist, and let Him accomplish His will on us.” 

“ But this,” said Inglesant, “ is very different from what my 
reading and experience in mystical religion has taught me. 
Is there then no medium between the Divine Life and ourselves 
than that of the civil government ? This would seem to me 
most repulsive and contrary to experience.” 

“ If you pretend to a direct revelation,” said Hobbes with a 
smile, “ I have nothing to allege against it, but, to the rest of 
us, Christian Sovereigns are the supreme pastors and tlie only 
persons we now hear speak from God. But because God giveth 
faith by means of teachers, therefore I call hearing the imme- 


68 


JOHN inglesant; 


[chap. V. 


diate cause of fai:h. Iii a school where many are taught, some 
jirofit, others profit not; the cause of learning in them that 
profit is the Master, yet it cannot be thence inferred that learn¬ 
ing is not the gift of GoJ. All good things proceed from God, 
yet cannot all that have them say that they are inspired, for 
that implies a gift supernatural and the immediate hand of God, 
which he that pretends to, pretends to be a prophet.” 

“I am loath to believe what you say,” said Inglesant; “I 
am no prophet, yet I would willingly believe that God is speak¬ 
ing to me with an immediate voice, nay, more, that I may 
enter into the very life that God is leading, and partake of His 
nature. Also, v^at you now say seems to me to contradict 
what you said before, that w^e should endeavour to found our 
doctrine on the conceptions and ideas of things, which I take to 
mean a following after divine truth : nor do I see why you take 
the sacrament, as you say you do, except you expect some imme¬ 
diate communication from God in it.” 

The philosopher smiled. “One may see you have been 
taught in the Jesuits’ college,” he said, “ and are a forward pupil 
and a close reasoner. But what I have said concerning faith 
coming by hearing need not prevent that afterwards God may 
convey other gifts to men by other means. Yet I confess I am 
not a proficient in this divine knowledge or life of which you 
speak; nor do I follow your master Plato very far into the 
same conclusions which many profess to find in him. One dis¬ 
putant grounds his knowledge upon the infallibility of the 
Church, and the other on the testimony of the private spirit. 
The first we need not discuss, but how do you know that your 
private spirit, that this divine life within you, is any other 
than a belief grounded on the authority and arguments of your 
teachers 

Inglesant made no reply, which the philosopher perceiving, 
began to talk of something else, and the other soon after took 
his leave. Hobbes’s doctrine was new to him, as it was to 
every one in that day, indeed, the particular form it took was 
peculiar to Hobbes, and perished with him; but the underlying 
materialism which in some form or other has presented itself to 
the thinkers of every age, and which now for the first time 
came before Inglesant’s mind, was not without its effect. “ How 
do I know indeed,” he said, “ that this divine life within me is 
anything but an opinion formed by what I have heard and 


C1IA1\ VI.] 


A ROJIANCE. 


69 

read 1 How do I know that there is any such tinner as a divine 
life at all V’ 

Such thoughts as these, if they produced no other effect, yet 
gradually lessened that eagerness in his mind towards divine 
things which had been so strong since his visit to Little Gid- 
ding, and quite satisfied him to defer at any rate any thoughts 
of joining the Church of Rome. But his thoughts were turned 
into other channels by the events which were occurring in the 
political world, and wdiich began now to assume a very exciting 
character. 


CHAPTER VI. 

On the 20th of August 1640 the King set out for York on 
his way to Scotland, in some haste, and Iiiglesant accomjianied 
or rather preceded him, his duty being to provide apartments 
for the King. The King advanced no farther than North 
Allerton, Lord Strafford being at Darlington, and a large j)art 
of the army at Newburn-upon-Tyne, from whence they retreated 
before the Scots almost without fighting. It was at this time 
that Iiiglesant began to see more of the real state of affairs 
among the leaders of the royal party, and became aware of the 
real weakness of their position. He appears to have formed 
the opinion that Lord Strafford, in spite of his great qualities, 
had failed altogether in establishing himself on a firm and 
lasting footing of power, and was deficient in those qualities of 
a statesman that ensure success, and incapable of realizing the 
necessities of the times. His army, on which he relied, was 
disorganized, and totally witliout devotion or enthusiasm. It 
melted away before the Scots, or fraternized with theili, and 
the trained Ibands and gentry wLo came into the King’s standard 
and to the Earl, prefaced all their offers of service with jjetitions 
for the redress of grievances and the calling together a Parlia¬ 
ment. Inglesant had already formed the opinion that the 
Archbishop, who was now left at the head of affairs in London 
with the Privy Council, and was vainly endeavouring to prevent 
the citizens from sending up monster petitions to the King, was 
even more at variance with the inevitable course of events, and 
more powerless to withstand them, than the Earl; and he 


70 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap. VI. 


appears to have written to liis friend the Jesuit, for his guid¬ 
ance, careful explanations of his own views on these subjects. 
Father Hall, however, was not a man hastily to change his 
course. He had belonged from the beginning to that section of 
the popish party whose policy had been to support the High 
Church party rather than to oppose it, and this policy was 
strengthened now that the royal power itself began to be at¬ 
tacked. Whatever others of the po]nsh party might think, 
those with whom the Jesuit acted, and the party at Rome 
which directed their conduct, were undeviating supporters of 
the King, and were cCnvinced that all advantage which the 
Papists might in future achieve was dependent upon him. It 
is not apparent what action the Jesuit was taking at this 
moment, probably he was contented to watch the course of 
('vents; but this much is certain, that his efforts to induce 
Churchmen to work with him were increased rather than 
diminished. 

While the King was at York, the Marquis of Montrose, wdio 
was ill the Covenanters’ army, carried on a correspondence wdth 
him, and copies of his letters wmre believed to be stolen from 
the King’s pockets at night by one of the gentlemen of the bed¬ 
chamber, and sent to the leader of the Scots’ army. Montrose 
retired into Scotland, and as the King was desirous of continu¬ 
ing a C' rrespondeuce wdiich promised so much, he decided upon 
sending a special messenger to the Marquis. Inglesant was 
fixed upon for this mission, as being known by the Royalists as 
a confidential agent of the Court, but at tlie same time almost 
entirely unknown to the opposite party. He found Montrose at 
Edinburgh, at a time when the Marquis was endeavouring to 
form a party among the nobility of Scotland, in opposition to the 
Covenant. Inglesant was probably little more in this nego¬ 
tiation than an accredited letter-carrier ; but a circumstance 
occurred in connection wdth his stay in Scotland which is not 
wdthout interest wdth reference to his future character. Among 
the gentlemen with whom Montrose was in connection, were 
some of the Highland chiefs, and to one of these the Marquis 
sent Inglesant as a safe agent, being perfectly unknown in Scot¬ 
land. This gentleman, understanding that the messenger of 
Montrose was coming to meet him, travelled down from the 
Highlands with a great retinue of servants, and sent on one of 
his gentlemen, with a few attendants, to meet the young English- 


CHAP. VI.] 


A ROMANCE. 


71 


man on the borders of Perthshire. Inglesant had ridden from 
Stirling, and the night being stormy and dark, he had stopped 
at a gentleman’s house in a lonely situation at the foot of the 
Badenoch Hills. Here, late in the evening, his entertainers 
met him, and they passed the night in company. After supper, 
as they were sitting in front of the fire with the master of the 
house and several more, the conversation turned upon the faculty 
of second sight and the niunberless instances of its certainty 
with which the Highland gentlemen were acquainted. While 
they were thus discoursing, the attention of the gentleman who 
had come to meet Inglesant was attracted by an old Highlander 
who sat in the large chimney, and he inquired whether he saw 
anything unusual in the Englishman, that made him regard him 
with such attention. He said no, he saw nothing in him fatal 
or remarkable more than this, that he was much mistaken if 
that young man was not a seer himself, or, at any rate, would 
be able before many months were over to see apparitions and 
spirits. Inglesant thought little of this at the time, but he 
remembered it afterwards when an event occurred on his return 
to London which recalled it to his recollection. 

The treaty having been settled with the Scots, and the writs 
issued for a new Parliament, the King returned to London. 

One day in September, Inglesant received a visit from one 
of the servants of the Ai'chbishop of Canterbury, who brought a 
message from Laud expressing a wish to see Mr. Inglesant at his 
dinner at Lambeth Palace on any day that would suit his con¬ 
venience. He went the next day by water at the proper hour, 
and was ushered into the great hall of the palace, where dinner 
was laid, and many gentlemen and clergymen standing about in 
the windows and round the tables, waiting the Archbishop. 
Inglesant’s entrance was remarked at once, his dress and appear¬ 
ance rendering him conspicuous, and his person being well 
known, and occasioned some surprise; for tlie Archbisliop had 
not been latterly on friendly terms with the Queen, whom he 
had opposed on some questions relating to Papists, to whose 
party, even since his being in the King’s household, Inglesant 
was considered to belong. The servants had evidently received 
orders concerning him, for he was place<l very high at table, and 
waited upon with great attention. On the Archbishop’s entrance 
he noticed Inglesant jjarticularly, and expressed his ideasure at 
seeing him there. The conversation at dinner turned entirely 


72 


JOHN INGLESANT ; 


[chap. VI 


on the Scotch rebellion, and the failure of the Earl of Strafford 
to repress it; and on the King’s return to London, which had 
not long taken place. Several gentlemen present had been 
with the army, and spoke of the insubordination among the 
officers, especially such as had been Parliament men. The elec¬ 
tions for the new Parliament were expected shortly to take 
place, and many of the officers were deserting from the army, 
and coming up to London and other places to secure their return. 
Tlic utmost dissatisfaction and insubordination prevailed over 
the whole country, for Laud and Strafford, after exciting the 
animosity of the people, had proved themselves weak, and the 
people began to despise as well as hate them—not perceiving 
that this probably proved that they were not the finished t}Tants 
they were supposed to be. Strafford’s arm}', raised by himself, 
having proved powerless against the Scots and insubordinate 
against its master, the popular party was encouraged to attack 
him, whom they hated as much as ever, though they began to 
fear him less. The violent excitement of the popular party 
against the High Churchmen and against ceremonies w'as also a 
subject of conversation. The wildest rumours were prevalent 
as to the probable conduct of the new Parliament, but all agreed 
that the Lord Lieutenant and the Archbishop, and probably the 
Lord Keeper, would be impeached. After dinner the Arch- 
bisliop rose from table, and retired into one of the windows, at 
the upper end of the hall, overlooking the river, requesting 
Inglesant, to whom he pointed out the beauties of the view, to 
follow him. Having done this, he said a few words to him in 
a lovv' voice, explaining his regret at the difference which had 
arisen between himself and the Queen, whose most faithful 
servant he protested he liad ever been, and whom he was most 
desirous to please. He then went on to say that he both could 
and intended to inform Her Majesty of this through other 
channels than Mr. Inglesant, though he bespoke his good offices 
therein ; but he wished principally to speak to him of another 
matter, which would require privacy to explain fully to him; 
but thus far he woidd say, that although he had always been a 
true servant of the Church of England, and had never enter¬ 
tained any thoughts inconsistent with such fidelity, yet he 
believed the Roman Catholics were aware that he had always 
behaved with gi'eat toleration to them, and had always enter¬ 
tained a great respect for their religion, refusing to allow it to 


CHAP. VI.] 


A ROMANCE. 


73 


be abused or described as Antichrist in the English pulpits; 
that it was notorious that he had excited the enmity of the 
popular party by this conduct; and that whatever he might 
suffer under the new Parliament would be in consequence of it. 
He was aware that Mr. Inglesant was in the confidence of that 
party, and especially the particular friend of Father Hall, the 
leader of the most powerful section of it; and he entreated his 
services to bring the Jesuit and himself to some understanding 
and concerted action, whereby, at least, they might ward off some 
of the blows that Avould be aimed at them. The Archbishop 
said that many of the wisest politicians considered that the two 
parties who would divide the stage between them would be the 
popular party and the Papists; and if this were really the case 
(though he himself thought that the loyal Church party would 
prove stronger than was thought) it was evident that Mr. Ingle- 
sant’s friend would be well able to return any kindness that the 
Archbishop had shown the Eomanists. 

Inglesant went to the Jesuit as soon as possible, and related 
his interview with the Archbishop. Father Hall listened to it 
with great interest. 

“He has been like a true ecclesiastic,” he said, “blind to 
facts while he was in the course of his power, astonished and 
confounded when the natural results arrive. Nevertheless, I 
fancy he will make a good fight, or at least a good ending. 
The people know not what they want, and might have been led 
easily, but it is too late. What was the real amount of tyranny 
and persecution the people suffered 1 The Church officers were 
blamed on the one hand for not putting the laws in force against 
the Papists, and on the other, for putting them in force against 
the Puritans. However, he has a right view of the power of 
the Chirrch party, in which I join him. We shall see the good 
fight they will make for the King yet. The gentry and chivalry 
of England are rather rusty for want of use, but we shall see 
the metal they are made of before long. However, the Catholics 
will be ready first, are ready in fact now, and I have gveat hopes 
of the use that we shall make of these opportunities. I am 
much mistaken if such a chance as we shall have before many 
months are over will not be greater than we have had for a 
century. I shall count on you. We have been long delayed, and 
you must have thought all our pains would come to nothing ; but 
we must have long patience if we enter on the road of politics. 


74 


JOHN inglesant; 


[chap. VI. 


“You are now,” said the Jesuit, “embracing the cause full 
of enthusiasm and zeal, and this is very well; how else could 
we run out the race, unless we began with some little fire*? 
But this will not last, and unless you are warned, you may be 
offended and fall away. When you have lived longer in this 
world and outlived the enthusiastic and pleasing illusions of 
youth, you will find your love and pity for the race increase 
tenfold, your admiration and attachment to any particular party 
or opinion fall away altogether. You will not find the royal 
cause perfect any more than any other, nor those embarked in 
it free from mean and sordid motives, though you think now 
that all of them act from the noblest. This is the most import¬ 
ant lesson that a man can learn—that all men are really alike ; 
that all creeds and opinions are nothing but the mere result of 
chance and temperament; that no party is on the whole better 
than another; that no creed does more than shadow imperfectly 
forth some one side of truth; and it is only wdien you begin to 
see this that you can feel that pity for mankind, that sympathy 
with its disappointments and fillies, and its natural human 
hopes, which have such a little time of growth, and such a sure 
season of decay. 

“I have seen nothing more pathetic than touches in the 
life of some of these Puritans—men who liave, as they thought 
in obedience to the will of the Deity, denied themselves pleasm'e 
—human pleasure—through their lives, and now and then some 
old song, some pleasant natural tale of love flashes across their 
path, and the true human instinct of the sons of Adam lights 
up within them. 

“Nothing but the Infinite pity is sufficient for the infinite 
pathos of human life. 

“ As you know, we have many parties in our Church, nay, 
in our own order; different members may be sent on opposing 
missions; but it is no matter, they are all alike. Hereafter it 
will be of little importance which of these new names. Cavalier 
or Roundhead, jmu are called by, whether you turn Papist or 
Puritan, Jesuit or Jansenist, but it will matter very much 
whether you acted as became a man, and did not flinch ignobly 
at the moment of trial. Choose your part from the instinct of 
your order, from your birth, or from habit or what not; but 
having chosen it, follow it to the end. Stand by your party or 
your order, and especially in the hour of trial or danger be sure 


CHAP. TI.] 


A ROMANCE. 


75 


you never falter; for, be certain of this, thal no misery can be 
equal to that which a man feels who is conscious that he has 
proved unequal to his part, wdio has deserted the post his cap¬ 
tain set him, and who, W'hen men said ‘ such and such a one is 
there on guard, there is no need to take further heed,’ has left 
his watch or quailed before the foeman, to the loss, perhaps the 
total ruin, of the cause he had made his choice. I pray God 
that such misery as this may never be yours.” 

The elections being over, London became very full. The 
new members hastened up. The nobility and country gentry 
came crowding in, and all the new houses in the Strand and 
Charing Cross were occupied, and a throng of young Cavaliers 
filled the courts and precincts of the palace. As soon as the 
King arrived, Inglesant went into waiting in his new post, in 
which great responsibility in the keeping of the royal household, 
especially at night, devolved upon him. His post came immedi¬ 
ately after that of the gentlemen of the privy chamber, with 
whom the immediate attendance on the person of the King 
stopped, but the charge of the King’s rooms brought liiin con¬ 
tinually into the royal presence. 

As soon as the Parliament met, the impeachment of Straf¬ 
ford began; and as it proceeded, the excitement grew more and 
more intense. It was not safe for the courtiers to go into the 
city, except in numbers together, and a court of guard was kept 
by the Cavaliers before Whitehall towards Charing Cress. 

One day Inglesant received a letter from the Jesuit, v hom 
lie seldom saw, as follows :— 

“ Jack, tell your friend the Archbishop, that Lambeth 
House will be attacked two nights from this, by a rabble of 
the populace. The Parliament leaders will not be seen in this, 
but they can be felt. Burn this, but let the Archbishop know 
the hand from which it comes.” 

On receiving this warning the Archbishop fortified his house, 
and crossed the w^ater to his chamber in Whitehall, where he 
slept that night and two others following. His house was 
attacked by a mob of five hundred men; one of them was 
wounded and afterwards executed; not much damage was done. 

History can furnish few events so startling and remarkable as 
the trial and death of Lord Strafford—events which, the more 
they are studied the more wonderful they appear. It is not easy 
to find words to exiacss the miserable weakness and want of 


JOHN inglesant; 


[chap. VI. 


76 

statesmanship which led to, and made possible, such an event; 
and one is almost equally surprised at the comparatively few traces 
of the sensation and consternation that such an event must have 
produced. I am not speaking of the justice or the injustice of the 
sentence, nor of the crime or innocence of the accused,—I speak 
only of a great minister and servant of the Crown, in whose 
policy and support the whole of the royal power, the whole 
strength of the national establishment, was involved and pledged. 
That such a man, by the simple clamour of popular opinion, 
should have been arrested, tried, and executed in a few days, 
with no effort but the most degrading and puny one made on 
his behalf by his royal master and friend, certainly must have 
produced a terror and excitement, one would think, unecpialled 
in history. That the King never recovered from it is not sur¬ 
prising ; one would have thought he would never have held up 
his head again. That the royal party was amazed and con¬ 
founded is not wonderful; one would have thought it would 
have been impossible ever to have formed a royal party after¬ 
wards. That there was no power in the country able to protect 
either the Lords or the Monarch in the discharge of their con¬ 
science seems too strange to be believed. 

It was two nights after the execution. The guard w’as set 
at Whitehall and the “ all night ” served up. The word for 
the night was given, and the whole palace was considered as 
under the sole command of Inglesant, as the esquire in waiting. 
He had been found to the several gates and seen that the courts 
and anterooms were quiet and clear of idlers, and then came up 
into the anteroom outside the privy chamber, and sat down 
alone before the fire. In the room beyond him were two gentle¬ 
men of the privy chamber, who slept in small beds drawn across 
the door opening into the royal bedchamber beyond. The King 
w^as in his room, in bed, but not asleep; Lord Abergavenny, the 
gentleman of the bedchamber in waiting, was reading Shake¬ 
speare to him before he slept. Inglesant took out a little volume 
of the classi(;s, of the series printed in Holland, which it was 
the custom of the gentlemen of the Court, and those attached 
to great nobles, to carry with them to read in antechambers 
while ill waiting. The night was perfectly still, and the whole 
palace wrapped in a profound quiet that was almost oppressive 
to one who happened to be awake. Inglesant could not read ; 
the event that had just occuiTed, the popular tumults, the shock 


CHAP. VI.] 


A ROMANCE. 


7^ 


of feeling which the royal party had sustained, the fear and un¬ 
certainty of the futm-e, filled his thoughts. The responsibility 
of his post sat on him to-night like a nightmare, and with very 
unusual force : a sense of approaching terror in the midst of the 
intense silence fascinated him and became almost insupportable. 
His fancy filled his mind with images of some possible oversight 
and of some unseen danger which might be Im’king even then 
in the precincts of the vast rambling palace. Gradually, how¬ 
ever, all these images became confused and the sense of terror 
dulled, and he was on the point of falling asleep when he was 
startled by the ringing sound of arms ancl the challenge of the 
yeoman of the guard, on the landing outside the door. The 
next instant a voice, calm and haughty, which sent a tremor 
through every nerve, gave back the word, “ Christ.” Inglesant 
started up and grasped the back of his chair in terror. 

Gracious Heaven ! who was this that knew the word ^ In 
another moment the hangings across the door were drawn sharply 
back, and with a quick step, as one who went straight to where 
he was expected and had a right to be, the intruder entered the 
antechamber. It wore the form and appearance of Strafford—• 
it was Strafford—in dress, and mien, and step. Taking no heed 
of Inglesant, crouched back in terror against the carved chimney- 
piece, the apparition crossed the room with a quick step, drew 
the hangings that screened the door of the privy chamber, and 
disappeared. Inglesant recovered in a moment, sprang across 
the room, and followed the figure through the door. He saw 
nothing; but the two gentlemen raised themselves from their 
couches, startled by his sudden appearance and white, scared 
look, and said, “ What is it, Mr. Esquire ^ ” 

Before Inglesant, who stood with eyes and mouth open, the 
picture of terror, could recover himself, the ciu'taiii of the bed¬ 
chamber was drawn hastily back, and the Lord Abergavenny 
suddenly appeared, saying in a hurried, startled voice ;— 

“ Send for Mayern; send for Dr. Mayern, the King is taken 
very ill!” 

Inglesant, who by this time was recovered sufficiently to act, 
seized the opportunity to escape, and, hurrying through the ante¬ 
chamber and down the staircase to the guard-room, he found 
one of the pages, and despatched him for the Court physician. 
He then returned to the guard at the top of the staircase. 

“Has any one passed'2” he asked. 


78 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap. VI. 


“No,” the man said; “he had seen no one.” 

“ Did you challenge no one a moment ago 1” 

The man looked scared, but finally acknowledged what he 
feared at first to confess, lest it should be thought he had been 
sleeping at his post, that he had become suddenly conscious of, as 
it seemed to him, some presence in the room, and found himself 
the next moment, to his confusion, challenging the empty space. 

Failing to make anything of the man, Inglesant returned to 
the privy chamber, where Lord Abergavenny was relating what 
had occurred. 

“ I was reading to the King,” he repeated, “ and His Majesty 
was very still, and I began to think he was falling asleep, when 
he suddenly started upright in bed, grasped the book on my 
knee with one hand, and with the other pointed across the 
chamber to some object upon which his gaze was fixed with a 
wild and horror-stricken look, while he faintly tried to cry out. 
In a second the terror of the sight, whatever it was, overcame 
him, and he fell back on the bed with a sharp cry.” 

“ Mr. Inglesant saw something,” said both the gentlemen 
at once ; “he came in here as you gave the alarm.” 

“ I saw nothing,” said Inglesant; “ whatever frightened me 
I must tell the King.” 

Dr. Mayern, who lodged in the palace, soon arrived ; and as 
the King was sensible when he came, he merely prescribed some 
soothing drink, and soon left. The moment he was gone the 
King called Abergavenny into the room alone to him, and ques¬ 
tioned him as to what had occurred. Abergavenny told him aU 
he knew, adding that the esquire in waiting, Mr. Inglesant, was 
believed to have seen something by the gentlemen of the privy 
chamber, whom he had aroused. Inglesant was sent for, and 
found the King and Abergavenny alone. He declined to speak 
before the latter, until the King positively commanded him to 
do so. Deadly pale, with his eyes on the ground, and speaking 
with the greatest difficidty, he then told his story; of the deep 
silence, his restlessness, the sentry’s challenge, and the appari¬ 
tion that appeared. Here he stopped. 

“ And this figm-e,” said Abergavenny in a startled whisper, 
“ did you know who it was ?” 

“Yes, I knew him,” said the young man; “would to God 
I had not.” 

“ Who was it V 


CHAP. VII.3 A ROMANCE. 79 

Paler, if possible, than before, and with a violent effort, 
Inglesant forced himself to look at the King. 

A contortion of pain, short but teiTible to see, passed over 
the King’s face, but he rose from the chair in which he sat (for 
he had risen from the bed and even dressed himself), and, with 
that commanding dignity which none ever assumed better than 
he, he said,— . 

AVho was it, Mr, Esquire 

‘‘My Lord Strafford.” 

Abergavenny stepped back several paces, and covered his 
face with his hands. Ko one spoke. Inglesant dared not stir, 
but remained opposite to the King, trembling in every limb, 
and his eyes upon the ground like a culprit. The King con¬ 
tinued to stand with his commanding air, but stiff and ligid as 
a statue; it seemed as though he had strength to command his 
outward demeanour, but no power besides. 

The silence grew terrible. At last the King was able to 
make a slight motion with his hand. Inglesant seized the 
opportunity, and, bowing to the ground, retired backward to 
the door. As he closed the door the King turned towards 
Abergavenny, but the room was empty. The King was left 
alone. 


CHAPTER VII. 

In the beginning of 1642 the King left Whitehall finally, and 
retired with the Queen to Hampton Court, from which he >vent 
to the south to see Her Majesty embark, and without returning 
to London proceeded to the north. Very few attendants 
accompanied him, and Inglesant was left at liberty to go where 
he pleased. His brother was in, France, and he was at the 
moment ignorant where the Jesuit was. Seveml motives led 
him to go to Gidding, where he felt sure of a welcome, though 
Mr. Ferrar was dead, and he accordingly rode there in the end 
of March. Mr. Nicholas Ferrar jun. had been dead nearly a 
year, having not long survived his uncle, and the household was 
governed by Mr. John Ferrar, Mr. Nicholas Ferrar’s brother. 
Their usual quiet and holy life seemed quieter and more holy; 
a placid melancholy and a sort of contented sorrow seemed to 
fiU the place, which was not disturbed even by those expecta- 


80 JOHN INGLESANT; [CHAP. VII. 

tions of approaching trouble and danger which all felt. They 
received Inglesant with kindness and even affection, and 
begged him to remain as long as he pleased. Mary Collet, 
who, secretly he acknowledged to himself, was the principal 
reason of his coming down, met him frankly, and seemed more 
attractive and beautiful than before. He felt awed and quieted 
in her presence, yet nothing was so delightful, to him as to be 
in the room or garden with her, and hear her speak. He en¬ 
deavoured to assist her in her work of attending to the poor 
and sick, and in tending the garden, and became like a brother 
to her, without saymg or desiring to say one word of gallantry 
or of love. The Puritans of the neighbouring towns, who had 
always disliked the Ferrars, came more frequently into their 
neighbourhood, and endeavoured to set the country people 
against them, and even to stir them up to acts of violence; but 
the Ferrars remarked that these annoyances were lessened by 
the efforts of a Puritan gentleman, who was possessed of con¬ 
siderable property in Peterborough, and who had latterly taken 
advantage of several excuses to come to Little Gidding. 

Inglesant saw this gentleman once or twice, and became 
rather attracted towards him in a strange way. He apjjeared 
to him to be a man in whom a perpetual struggle was going on 
between his real nature and the system of religion which he 
had adopted, but in whom the original nature had been subdued 
and nearly extinguished, until some event, apparently of recent 
occurrence, had renewed this conflict, and excited the conquered 
human nature once more to rebellion. This alone would have 
afforded sufficient interest and attraction to a man of Ingle- 
sant’s temperament; but this interest was increased tenfold 
when he perceived, as he did very soon, that this disturbing 
event and the reason which brought Mr. Thorne to Gidding 
were in fact one and the same, the same indeed Avhich brought 
himself there—attraction to* Mary Collet. The peaceful half¬ 
religious devotion with which he regarded his friend prevented 
him from being incited to any feeling of jealousy by this dis¬ 
covery, and indeed would have made the idea of such a senti¬ 
ment and opposition almost ridiculous. He treated Mr. Thorne, 
when they met at table or elsewhere, with the most marked 
courtesy—a courtesy which the other very imperfectly returned, 
at first ignoring Inglesant altogether, and when this was no 
longer possible, taking every opportunity to reprove and lecture 


CHAP. VII.] 


A ROaiANCE. 


81 


him in the way the Puritans took upon them to do, all of which 
Inglesant bore good-humouredly. Things had gone on this 
way for several weeks, and Mr. Thorne’s visits had grown less 
frequent, when one summer afternoon he rode over, and after 
seeing Mr. John Ferrar, came to seek Mary Collet. He found 
her and Inglesant alone in one of the small reading parlours 
looking on the garden. Inglesant had been reading aloud in 
Mr. Crashaw’s poems; but on the other’s entering the room, 
he rose and stood behind Mary Collet’s chair, his hand resting 
on the high back. His attitude probably annoyed Mr. Thorne, 
whose manner was more severe and stern than usual. He made 
the lady a formal greeting, and took slight heed of Inglesant, 
who wished him Good-day. 

“ The days are far from good, sir,” he said severely, “ and 
the night of the soul is dark; nevertheless, there is a path 
open to the saints of God, which will lead to a brighter time.” 

He looked hard at Mary Collet as he spoke. 

“I should hope, sir,” said Inglesant, with a conciliatory 
smile, “that you and I may one day stand together in a 
brighter dawn.” 

The other’s face slightly softened, for indeed the indescrib¬ 
able charm of Inglesant’s manner few could resist, but he hard¬ 
ened himself instantly, and replied,— 

“ It is a fond hope, sir. How can two walk together unless 
they are agreed 1 What fellowship is there between the saints 
(however unworthy) and the followers of the pleasures of this 
world ? And how may you, on whom the Prince of this world 
has bestowed every brilliant gift and power, stand at the resur¬ 
rection amongst the poor and despised saints of God 

Mary Collet moved slightly, and put her hand back upon 
the chair elbow, so that it partly ancl slightly touched Ingle¬ 
sant’s hand, at which movement, a spasm, as of pain, passed 
over Mr. Thorne’s features, and he drew himself up more sternly 
than before. 

“But I am idling my time vainly and sinfully here,” he 
said, “ in chambering and wantonness, wdien I should be buck¬ 
ling on my armour. Mistress Collet, I came here to wish you 
farew'ell. I am going to London in the good cause, and I shall 
in all human probability never see you more. I entreat you to 
listen to the bridegroom’s voice, and from my heart I wish you 
God-speed.” 

G 


82 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap. VII. 


As siie rose, he pressed her hand lightly, and raised his eyes 
to heaven, as the Puritans were ridiculed for doing ;• then he 
bowed stiffly to Inglesant, and was gone. 

• Inglesant followed him to the coirntyard, where his horses 
were standing, but he took no further notice of him, and rode 
off through the gate. Johnny stood looking after him down the 
alley, between the latticed walks of the garden. At last he 
stopped and looked back. When he saw Inglesant still there, 
he seemed to hesitate, but finally dismounted and led his horse 
back. Inglesant hastened to meet him, with his plumed liat 
in his hand. 

“ Mr. Inglesant,” said the Puritan, speaking slowly and with 
evident hesitation, “I am going to say something which will 
probably make you regard with increased contempt not only 
myself, which you may well do, but the religion Avhich I profess 
to serve, but which I betray, in wdiich last you will commit a 
fatal sin. But before I say it, I beg of you, if a few moments 
ago I said anything that was unnecessarily severe and more than 
my Master would warrant, that you wdll forgive it. Woe be 
to us if we falter in the truth, and speak pleasant things wfflen 
we should set our face as a flint; nevertheless, there is no need 
for us to go beyond the letter of the Spirit, and I almost feel 
that the Lord has disowned my speech, seeing that so soon after 
I fear I myself am fallen from grace.” 

He stopped, and Inglesant wondered what this long pre 
amble might mean. 

He assured him that he bore no ill-feeling, but very much 
the contrary; but the Puritan scarcely allowed him to finish 
before he began again to speak, with still greater difficulty and 
hesitation. 

“ I came here to-day, sir, with the intention at which I have 
arrived, not without long w-restling in prayer, of proposing in 
the Lord’s name a treaty of marriage with Mrs. Mary Collet. 
In this I have sought direction, as I say, for a long time before 
addressing her. At length, yesterday, sitting all alone, I felt a 
word sweetly arise in me as if I heard a voice, which said, ‘ Go 
and prevail!’ and faith springing in my heart with the word, I 
immediately arose and went, nothing doubting. But when I 
came into her presence, and found her with you, upon wdiom I 
have ofttimes apprehended that her affections were fixed; when 
I thought of the disadvantage at which doubtless, in the world’s 


CHAP. VII.] 


A ROMANCE. 


83 


eye at least, I should be thought to stand with regard to you; 
when I considered her breeding and education in every sort of 
prelatical and papistical superstition—which latter has all 
through been a great stumbling-block to me, and to some others 
of the godly to wdiom I have opened this matter;—w hei^ I 
thought of these things, I, wretched man that I am ! I mis¬ 
trusted the Lord’s power. I was deaf to the voice that spoke 
within me, and I left my message unsaid. What my sin is in 
this cannot be told. It may be that I have frustrated the 
Lord’s will and purpose with regard to her, not only as regards 
calling her out of that empty show and prt)fession in which she 
is, but, which doubtless will seem of more force to you, of pro¬ 
viding her with some refuge from the stomi which assuredly is 
not far from this household. I have already, if you will believe 
me, done something in warding off the first advances of that 
storm, and think I do not deceive myself that I have power 
sufiicient to continue to do so. I entreat you, Mr. Inglesant, 
to think of this, if you have not yet done so, for her sake, and 
not for mine.” He spoke these last words in a difterent 
manner, and with an altered voice, as though they were not 
part of what he had originally intended to say, but had been 
forced from him by the spectacle his mind presented of danger 
to her whom it was evident he unselfishly loved. “I am not 
so ignorant in the w'orld’s ways,” he went on, “ as not to know 
how absurd such an appeal to you must seem; probably it will 
afford amusement to your friends in after days. Nevertheless 
I cannot refrain myself. I am distracted between two opinions, 
and as I rode away it came into my mind that I might after 
all be flying away from a shadow, and that there might be no 
such relation between you as that wdiich I have supposed—no 
other than that of a free and fair friendship; in which case I 
entreat you, Mr. Inglesant, though I confess I have no right 
nor claim upon you even for the commonest courtesy, to let me 
know it.” * 

Inglesant had listened to this singular confession at first 
wdth surprise, but as the man went on, he became profoundly 
touched. There was something extremely pathetic in the sight 
of the human nature in this man struggling within him beneath 
the force of his Puritanism, the one now urging him to con¬ 
ciliate, and the next moment the old habit breaking out in 
insult and denunciation; the one opening to him glimpses of 


84 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap. VII. 


human happiness which the other immediately closed. And 
what he said was doubtless very true, and pointed plainly to 
Inglesant what men would say was his duty. What ground 
had he to oppose himself to this man—he, with scarcely any 
formed purpose of his own 1 If the lofty Stratford had fallen, 
and the Archbishop had proved powerless to protect himself,^ 
how was he to protect any who might tmst to him 1 Even if 
he had thought nothing of this, it would have been impossible 
to have been angry with the distracted man before him, un¬ 
trained to conceal his thoughts, nay, taught by his religion that 
self-restraint or concealment is a sin, and that to keep back a 
word or a thought is a frustration of the will of God—a train¬ 
ing that would lay him open at every point before the polished 
pupil of the Jesuit and the Court. 

These reflections gave to his ordinary courtesy an additional 
charm, which plainly commanded the confidence of his rival, 
and he said,— 

“ What do you wish me to do, Mr. Thorne ? I am willing 
to leave everything to Mrs. Collet’s decision.” 

“I will take nothing on myself again,” said the other; “I 
will leave everything in the Lord’s hands. If it is His will 
that we be brought together, we shall be so brought. I will 
not stay now—indeed I am in no fit state of mind—^but in a 
few days I will come again, and whatever the Lord shall do in 
the meanwhile. His will be done.” 

The inconsistency of this last resolution with the denuncia¬ 
tion of the Ferrar family, and especially of Inglesant, which he 
had before expressed, struck Inglesant as so extraordinary that 
he began to doubt the sanity of his companion; but finding 
that Mr. Thorne was determined to go, he parted from him 
with mutual courtesy, and returned at once into the house. 

As he entered the room where Mary Collet was still sitting 
alone, she looked up with a smile, and was about to speak, no 
doubt to palliate the rudeness of their guest; but seeing from 
his manner that something extraordinary had occurred, she 
stopped, and Inglesant, who had resolved to tell her all that 
the Puritan had said, began at once and related simply, and, as 
closely as he could, word for word, what had happened. As 
he went on, the sympathy which the strange conflict he had 
v ituessed in the other’s breast had excited in his own, and the 
feeling he had of the truth of the other’s power to protect. 


V 


CHAP, vir.] 


A ROMANCE. 


85 


inspired his manner so that he spoke well and eloquently of his 
rival’s nature, and of the advantages that alliance with him 
would bestow; but honest as his purpose was, no course more 
fatal to his rival’s chance could probably have been taken, while 
at the same time he seriously, if he had any cause himself, 
jeopardized that also. 

Mary Collet listened with ever-increasing surprise, and the 
light in her eyes died away to coldness as she continued to look 
at Inglesant. Her calm look suffered no other change; but 
that acute perception which Inglesant’s training liad given him 
—perception which the purest love does not always give— 
showed him what was passing in his friend’s mind; he stopped 
suddenly in his pleading, and knew that he had said too much 
not to say more. He sank on the ground before the chair, 
and rested his hands upon the carved elbow, with his face, to 
which excitement gave increased beauty, raised to Mary Collet’s 
eyes. 

“It is all tnie, Mary,” he said. It was the first time he 
had called her by her name, and it sounded so sweetly that he 
said it again. “ It is all true, IMary; I might have spoken to 
you of another, would many times have spoken, if all this had 
not been true. As he said to me, dark days are coming on, 
the State is shaken to its base, the highest in the realm are 
disgraced and ruined, and even harried to death; what will 
happen the wisest heads cannot think; the King is a fugitive ; 
I am all but penniless, should be homeless but for you. This 
even is not all; if it had been I might liave spoken, but there 
is more which must be told. I am not my own. I am but 
the agent of a miglity will, of a system which commands 
unhesitating obedience—obedience which is part of my very 
being. I cannot even form the thought of violating it. This 
is why, often, when I tried to speak, my tongue refused its 
ofiice, my conscience roused itself to keep me still. But if, 
happily for me, I have been wrong; if, even for me, the gates 
of heaven may still open,—the gates that I have thought were 
inexorably closed,—I dare not face the radiance that even now 
issues through the opening space. Mary, you know me better 
than I know myself; I am ignorant and sinful and worldly; 
you are holy as a sain t of God. Do with me what you will, if 
there is anything in me worthy of you, take me and make it 
more worthy; if not, let me go: either way I am yours—my 


86 JOHN INGLESANT ; [cHAP VIL 

life belongs to you—neither life nor death is anything to me 
except as it may advantage you.” 

The light shone full on Mary Collet’s face, looking down on 
him as he spoke. The odoiu* of the garden flowers filled the 
room. The stillness of the late afternoon was unbroken, save 
by the murmiu' of insect life. Her eyes—those wonderful eyes 
that had first attracted him in the Church—grew larger and 
more soft as they looked down on him with a love and tender¬ 
ness which he had never seen before, and saw only once again. 
For some seconds she did not—perhaps could not—speak, for 
the great lustrous eyes were moist with tears. He would have 
lain there for ever with no thought but of those kindly eyes. 
At last she spoke, and her voice was tender, but low and calm; 
“ Johnny,”—it was the first time she had called him so, and 
she said it twice,—“Johnny, j'ou are right, I know you better 
than you know yourself. Your first instinct was right; but it 
was not your poverty, nor the distraction of the time, nor yet 
this mysterious fate that governs you, which kept you silent; 
poverty and the troubles of the times- we might have suffered 
together; this mysterious fate we naight have borne together 
or have broken through. No,” she contmued with a radiant 
smile, “ cavalier and corn-tier as you are, you also, in spite of 
Mr. Thorne, have heard a voice behind you saying, ‘ This is the 
way, walk in it.’ That way, Johnny, you will never leave for 
me. As this voice told you, this is not a time for us to spend 
our moments like two lovers in a play; we have both of us 
other work to do, work laid out for us, from which we may not 
shrink; a path to walk in where there is neither marrying nor 
giving in marriage. As for me, if I can follow in any degi’ee 
in the holy path my uncle walked in, growing more into the 
life of Jesus as he grew into it, it is enough for me; as for you, 
you will go on through the dark days that are at hand, as your 
way shall lead you, and as the divine voice shall call; and 
when I hear your name, as I shall hear it, Johnny, following 
as the divine call shall lead, you may be sure that my heart 
will beat delightedly at the name of a very noble gentleman 
who loves me, and whom—I love.” 

The evening sun that lighted all the place went down 
suddenly behind the hedges of the garden, and the room grew 
dark. 


CHAP. VIII.] 


A ROMANCE. 


87 


CHAPTER VIII. 

The manner of life at Gidding went on after this without the 
least alteration, and Inglesant’s position in the family remained 
the same. Two or three days after, Mr. Thorne returned, and 
had an interview with Mary Collet alone. She told him she 
had not thought of marriage with any one, but had dedicated 
her life to other work. He attempted a flowing discourse upon 
the evils of celibacy, and managed to destroy by his manner 
much of the kindly feeling which Mary had conceived for him. 
He met John Ferrar and Inglesant coming from the Church, 
and Inglesant tried to exchange some kindly words with him; 
but he avoided conversation with him, and soon left. Inglesant 
passed most of his time (for he was not quite so much with 
Mary Collet as before) in reading, especially in Greek, and in 
assisting some of the family in preparing that great book which 
was afterwards presented to Prince Charles. The influence of 
Mr. Hobbes’s conversation wore off in the peaceful religious 
talk and wmy of life of this family. It wms here that he had 
first obtained glimpses of what the divine life might be, and it 
was here alone that he felt any power of approach to it in his 
own heart. His love for Mary Collet, which was increased 
tenfold by the acknowledgment she had made to him, and wdiich 
gi'ew more and more every day that he spent at Gidding, asso¬ 
ciated as it was with all the teachings and incidents of these 
quiet holy days, made this life of devotion more delightful than 
can be told, and, indeed, made that life more like to heaven 
than any other that Inglesant ever lived. As he knelt in 
Church during the calm hours of prayer, and now and again 
looked up into Mary Collet’s face from where he knelt, he often 
felt as though he had found the Beatific Vision already, and 
need seek no more, so closely was her beauty connected with 
all that w^as pure and holy in his heart. In these happy days 
all pride and trouble seemed to have left him, and he felt free 
in heart from all self-will and sin. It was a dream, and unreal, 
doubtless; but it was allowed him not altogether without 
design, perhaps, in the divine counsel, and it could not be 
without fruit in his spiritual life. 

The long summer days that passed so quietly at Gidding 


88 


JOHN inglesant; 


[chap. VIII. 


were days of disturbance all over England, the King’s friends 
and those of the Parliament endeavouring to secure the counties 
for one or other of the contending parties. Nearly the whole 
of the eastern counties were so strong for the Parliament that 
the King’s friends had little chance, and those gentlemen who 
attempted to raise men or provide arms for the King were 
crushed in the beginning. But Huntingdonshire was more 
loyal, and considerable preparation had been made by several 
gentlemen, among others. Sir Capel Beedel and Richard Stone, 
the High Sheriff, to repair to the King’s quarters when the 
standard should be set up. Inglesant w^as waiting to hear from 
his brother, wdio had returned from France, and w'as in Wilt¬ 
shire with the Lord Pembroke, who had set in force the com¬ 
mission of array in that county. Inglesant wmuld have joined 
him but for the close neighbourhood of the King, who might be 
expected in those parts every day. Accordingly, one afternoon, 
the King, accompanied by the Prince, afterwards Cliarles the 
Second, and the Duke of Lennox, and by Prince Rupert, whom 
some called the Palsgrave after his father, came to Huntingdon. 
Inglesant rode into Huntingdon that evening, and found the 
King playing at cards w'itli the Palsgrave. The King received 
him graciously, and spoke to him privately of Father St. Clare, 
who liad latterly, he said, been very active among the Catholics 
of Shropshire and Staffordshire, from whom he soon expected to 
receive large sums of money. He said the Jesuit had told him 
wdiere Inglesant w^as, and that he intended on the next day to 
come by Little Gidding on his w^ay, and should spend some 
hours there, as he w^as very desirous again to see a place which 
had so pleased him, and of whose inmates he had formed so 
high an opinion from what he had seen of them. Inglesant 
slept that night in Huntingdon, but very early on the fine 
summer morning he rode out to Little Gidding to 'warn the 
family of the lionoiu’ that was intended them. Accordingly, 
about noon, they saw from the windows of the house the royal 
party approaching at the bottom of the hill. The whole family 
went out to meet them to the boundary of the lordshi]), at a 
little bridge that spans the brook. 

When the King approached foremost of all, they went to 
meet him, and kneeling down, prayed God to bless and preserve 
His Majesty, and keep him safe from his enemies’ malice. The 
King rode up the hill at a foot pace, and alighted at the Chapel, 


CHAP. VIII.] 


A ROMANCK 


89 


which he examined carefully, and was then shown over the 
whole house, being particularly pleased with the almshouses, 
for Avhose inmates he left five pieces of gold, saying it was 
all he had. He had won them from the Palsgrave the night 
before at cards. 

When he was come into the house, the great book that was 
being prepared for the Prince was brought him, and he spent 
some time in examining it and admiring the prints of which it 
was full, pointing out to the Palsgrave, who appeared to under¬ 
stand such things, the different style of each engraver. When 
he had sufficiently admired the book, and walked about the 
house, admiring the pleasant situation upon a little hill, the 
sun beginning to go down, the horses were brouglit to the door, 
and the King and the rest mounted. The whole family, men 
and women, knelt down as the King mounted, and prayed God 
to bless and defend him from his enemies, and give him a long 
and happy reign. “Ah!” said the King, raising his hat, 
“pray for my safe and speedy retimi again,” and so rode away, 
not knowing that he should return there again once more, in 
the very dead of night, a fugitive, and almost alone. 

>lc * ^ * 

When John Inglesant had said to Mary Collet that he was 
almost penniless, he had used rather a strong hyperbole, for 
at that time the sum of money his father had left him was 
almost untouched. Upon leaving London, he had managed to 
get it transferred from the goldsmith with whom he had de¬ 
posited it to another at Oxford, by a bill of exchange on the 
latter, as was the custom in transmitting sums of money in 
those days. This bill being now due, Inglesant decided on 
going to Oxford to secure possession of the money. He lodged 
at first at Mr. Martin Lippiard’s, a famous apothecary; but after 
a few days Im entered himself at W'adham College, where he 
got rooms which were of great use to him afterwards, when the 
Court came to Oxford. 

No place could have been found which offered more to 
interest and delight a man of Inglesaiit’s temperament than 
Oxford did at this time. It was still at the height of that 
prosperity which it had enjoyed under the King and Laud for 
so many years, but which was soon to be so sadly overcast. 
The' colleges were full of men versed and intelligent in all 
branches of learning and science, as they were then taught. 


90 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap. vrir. 


The halls and chapels were full of pictures and of rich plate 
soon to be melted down; the gardens and groves were in 
beautiful order, and the bowling greens well kept. The utmost 
loyalty to Church and State existed. Many old customs of the 
Papists’ times, soon to be discontinued, still survived. One of 
the scholars sang the Gospel for the day in Hall at the latter 
end of dinner. The musical services in the Chapels on Sundays, 
Holy Days, and Holy Day Eves, were much admired, and the 
subject of great care. Music was studied deeply as a science, 
antiquity and every foreign country being ransacked for good 
music, and every gentleman pretending to some knowledge of 
it. The High Church party, which reigned supreme, were on 
excellent terms with the Papists, and indeed they were so much 
alike that they mixed together without restraint. No people 
in England were more loyal, orthodox, and observant of the 
ceremonies of the Church of England than the scholars and 
generality of the inhabitants. 

. Every kind of cmious knowledge was eagerly pursued; 
many of the Fellows’ rooms were curious museums of antiquities 
and relics, and scarce books and manuscripts. Alchemy and 
astrology were openly practised, and more than one Fellow had 
the reputation of being able to raise Spirits. The niceties of 
algebra and the depths of metaphysics were inquired into and 
conversed upon with eagerness, and strange inquiries upon re¬ 
ligion welcomed. Dr, Cressy, of Merton, was the first who 
read Socinus’s books in England, and is said to have converted 
Lord Falkland, who saw them in his rooms. A violent con¬ 
troversy was going on among the physicians, and new schools 
had risen up who practised in chemical remedies instead of the 
old-fashioned vegetable medicines. 

The mejiibers of the university had put themselves into 
array and a posture of defence, for as yet there was no garrison 
at Oxford, and divers parties of soldiers were passing through 
the country, sent by the Parliament to secure Banbiuy and 
AVarwick. The deputy Vice-Chancellor called before him in 
the public schools every one who had arms, and the recruits 
were trained in the quadrangles of the colleges and other places. 
Matters being in this state, late in October, in the middle of 
the week, news reached Oxford that the King had left Shrews- 
biuy with his army, and was marching through Warwickshire 
on his way to London. The Parliamentary army was following 


CHAP. VIII.] 


A ROMANCE. 


91 


from Worcester, and, as was thought, the two armies would 
soon engage. Numbers of volunteers immediately started to 
meet the King’s army; many of the undergraduates stealing 
out of Oxford secretly, and setting forth on foot. Inglesaiit 
joined himself to a company of gentlemen who had horses, and 
who, with their servants, made quite a troop. 

Some way out of Oxford he overtook a young undergraduate, 
the elder brother of Anthony Wood, afterwards the famous 
antiquary (who had stolen out of Oxford as above), and made 
one of his servants take him up behind him. They went by 
Woodstock and Chipping Norton, and slept the .Friday night at 
Sliipston-upon-Stour, and early the next morning obtained news 
of the royal army, which arrived under the Wormleighton Hills 
in the evening of Saturday. The King lodged that night at 
Sir William Chauncy’s, at Ratoll Bridge, some distance from 
the army, where Inglesant went late in the evening. These 
quiet woodland places, some of the most secluded in England, 
both then and now—so much so, that it was said in those days 
that wolves even were found there—were disturbed by unwonted 
bustle these dark October nights, parties marching and counter¬ 
marching, recruits and provisions arriving. It was not known 
where Lord Essex’s army was, but after it was dark it was dis¬ 
covered by the Prince of Wales’s regiment, which had been 
quartered in two or three villages under Wormleighton Hills. 
The whole regiment was drawn out into the fields, and remained 
there all night, provisions being brought to them from the 
villages, and news was sent to the King and Prince Rupert. 

At Sir William Chauncy’s Inglesant found the Jesuit and 
some other Catholic gentlemen whom he knewq for the number 
of Papists in the royal army was very great. Father Hall was 
dissatisfied at seeing Inglesant, and tried hard to persuade him 
to keep out of the battle, saying he had different and more 
useful work for him to do; but Inglesant would not consent, 
though he agreed not to expose himself unnecessarily. The 
Jesuit told him that his brother was with the Prince’s regiment, 
but coimselled him not to join him, but stay in the King’s 
bodyguard, which his place at Court might well account for his 
doing. He enlarged so much upon the coming danger, that 
Inglesant, who had never seen a battle, became quite timid, and 
was glad when the Jesuit was sent for to the King. Inglesant 
slept in a farm-house, not far from Sir William’s, with several 


92 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap. VIII. 


other gentlemen,—for those were fortunate who had half a bed, 
—and on the morning rode with the King’s pensioners to the 
top of Edgehill. The church-bells were ringing for morning 
service as they rode along. The King was that day in a black 
velvet coat lined with ermine, and a steel cap covered with 
velvet. He rode to every brigade of horse and to all the tertias 
of foot, and spoke to them with great courage and cheerfulness, 
to Avhich the army responded with loud huzzahs. An intense 
feeling of excitement prevailed as this battle—the first fought 
in England lor more than a century—was joined. Numbers of 
country people crowded the heights, and the army was full of 
volunteers who had only just joined, and had no idea of war. 
The King was pei'suaded with dilFiculty to remain on a rising- 
ground at some little distance, with his guard of pensioners on 
horseback; but Inglesant did not remain with him, but joined 
his brother in the Prince’s regiment, under- the Palsgrave, and 
rode ill the charge against the enemy’s horse, whom the Prince 
completely routed and chased off the field. Inglesant, however, 
did not share in the glory of this victory, for his horse was 
killed under him at tlie first shock of the encounter, and he 
went down with him, and received more than one kick from the 
horses’ hoofs as they passed over him, rendering him for some 
time senseless. On recovering himself he managed to get on 
his feet, and crossed the field to the royal foot, but unfortu¬ 
nately joined the foot guards at the moment they were attacked 
and routed by the Parliamentary horse and foot. The Earl of 
Lindsay and his son were taken prisoners, and the royal Standard 
was taken. At this moment the King was in great danger, 
being with few'er than a hundred horse within half a musket 
shot of the enemy. The two regiments of his reserve, however, 
came up, and Charles was desirous of charging the enemy him¬ 
self. Inglesant remained with the broken regiment of the 
guard who retreated up the road over the hill, along which the 
enemy’s horse advanced, but, the early October evening setting 
in, the enemy desisted and fell back upon their reserves. It 
was a hard frost that night, and very cold. The King’s army 
marched up the hills which they had come down so gallantly in 
the morning. Inglesant remained with the broken foot guards 
and the rest of the foot, which were confusedly mix-ed together, 
all night. The men made fires all along the hill top to warm 
themselves, and gathered round them in strange and motley 


A ROMANCE. 


93 


CHAP, vni.] 

groups. ]\Iany of the foot were very badly armed, the Welsh¬ 
men, especially, having only pitchfor]j;s, and many only clubs; 
but Prince Rupert the next day made a descent upon Keiiiton, 
and carried oft' several waggon-loads of arms, which were very 
useful. The officers and men were mixed up together round 
the fires without distinction. As Inglesant was standing by 
one of them stiff and stunned with the blows he had received, 
and weak from a sabre cut he had received on the arm, he heard 
some one who had come up to the fire inquiring for him by 
name. It was the Jesuit, who had given him up for dead, as 
he had met his brother who had returned with Prince Rupert 
when he rejoined the King, and had learnt from him that Ingle¬ 
sant had fallen in the first charge. He told him that Eustace 
had gone down into the plain to endeavour to find him, which 
surprised and touched Inglesant very much, as he suspected his 
brother of caring very little for him. Father St. Clare stayed 
with Inglesant at the fire all night, for the latter was too stiff to 
move, and made himself quite at home with the soldiers, as he 
could with people of every sort, telling them stories and encour¬ 
aging them with hopes of high pay and rewards when the King 
had once marched to London and turned out the Parliament. 
Inglesant dozed off to sleep and woke up again several times 
during this strange night, with a confused consciousness of the 
flaring fire lighting up the wild figures, and the Jesuit still talk¬ 
ing and still unwearied all through the night. 

One of the first men he saw in the morning was Edward 
Wood, whom he had helped on his way from Oxford. This 
young man had been much more fortunate than Inglesant, for 
he had come on foot without arms, and he had succeeded in 
getting a good horse and accoutrements. 

“ You are much more lucky than I am,” said Inglesant; “ I 
have lost my horses and servants and all my arms, and am 
beaten and wounded, as you see, till I can scarcely stand, while 
you seem to have made your fortune.” 

“ I shall certainly get a commission,” said the young man, 
who was only eighteen, and certainly was very much pleased 
with himself; “ but never mind, Mr. Inglesant,” he continued, 
patronizingly, “it is your first battle, as it is mine, and you 
have no doubt learnt much from it that will be useful to you.” 

It had been one of the principal parts of Inglesant’s training 
to avoid assuvnption liimself, and to be amused with it in others, 


94 


JOHN INGLESANT ; 


[chap. viir. 


so he took his patronage meekly, and wished him success on his 
return to Oxford, where he really Avas made an officer in the 
King’s service soon after. 

Soon after he was gone Inglesant found his brother, and 
with him his own servants, with an additional horse they had 
managed to seciu-e, with Avhicli he replaced the one he had lost; 
and the next morning he rode with the Palsgrave into Keiiiton, 
where they surprised the rear of the Parliamentary army, and 
took much spoil of the arms and ammunition, and many wounded 
officers and other prisoners; but his wound being very painful, 
and being sick and weary of the sight of fighting, and especially 
of plundering, he left the Prince in Keinton and returned to 
Oxford, Avhere he Avas very glad to get back to his pleasant 
rooms in Wadham. After the King had Avasted his time in 
taking Banbury and Broughton Castle, he marched to Oxford 
with his army, Avliere he was received with demonstrations of 
joy, and stayed some days. 

After the King had rested a short time at Oxford, he pro¬ 
ceeded to march to London; but Inglesant did not accompany 
him. The bloAvs he had received about the head, together Avith 
his Avound and the excitement he had gone through, brought on 
a fever which kept him in his rooms for some time. The Jesuit 
stayed Avith him as long as he could, but many other of Ingle- 
sant’s friends at Oxford shoAved hiui great kindness. When he 
recovered, he found himself, to his great surprise, something of 
a hero. Though, as Ave haA^e seen, feAv men could haA^e done 
less at Edgehill than Inglesant did, or have had less influence 
on the event of the day, yet, as he had been in the charge of 
the Prince’s horse, and also in the rout of the foot guards, and 
had been Avounded in both, and above all AA^as, especially Avith 
the ladies, something of a faA^ourite, of Avhom no one objected 
to say a good Avord, he gained a decided reputation as a soldier. 
It Avas indeed reported and believed at Little Gidding that he 
had performed prodigies of valour, had saved the King’s life 
several times, and retrieved the fortunes of the day when they 
were desperate. In some respects this reputation Avas decidedly 
inconvenient to him; he AA’-as looked upon as a likely man to be 
in all foraging parties and in expeditions of observation sent 
out to trace the marchings and coimtermarchings of the enemy. 
Noav, as he AA-as pledged to the Jesuit not to expose himself to 
unnecessary daiigei*, these expeditions Avere very troublesome to 


CHAP. IX.] 


A EOMANCE. 


95 


him, besides taking him away from the studies to which he was 
anxious to apply himself, and from the company of the leaders 
of both the Churchmen and Papists, to obtain the acquaintance 
and confidence of whom he still applied himself, both from 
inclination and in accordance with the Jesuit’s wish. It is 
true, however, that in these expeditions about the country he 
formed several friendships of this kind, which might afterwards 
be usefuL 


CHAPTER IX. 

The King returned to Oxford in December, and the Court was 
established at Christ Church College. There has perhaps never 
existed so curious a spectacle as Oxford presented during the 
residence of the King at the time of the civil war. A city 
unique in itself became the resort of a Court under unique cir¬ 
cumstances, and of an innumerable throng of people of every 
rank, disposition, and taste, under circumstances the most extra¬ 
ordinary and romantic. The ancient colleges and halls were 
thronged with ladies and courtiers; noblemen lodged in small 
attics over bakers’ shops in the streets; soldiers were quartered 
in the college gates and in the kitchens; yet, with all this con¬ 
fusion, there was maintained both something of a courtly pomp, 
and something of a learned and religious society. The King 
dined and supped in public, and walked in state in Christ 
Church meadow and Merton Gardens and the Grnve of Trinity, 
which the wits called Daphne. A Parliament sat from day to 
day; service was sung daily in all the Chapels; books both of 
learning and poetry were printed in the city ; and the distinc¬ 
tions which the colleges had to offer were conferred with pomp 
on the royal followers, as almost the only rewards the King had 
ro bestow. Men of every opini(m Hocked to Oxford, and many 
foreigners came to visit the King. There existed in the country 
a large and highly intelligent body of moderate men, who 
hovered between the two parties, and numbers of these were 
constantly in Oxford,—Harrington the philosopher the King’s 
friend, Hobbes, Lord Falklnnd, Lord Paget, the Lord Keeper, 
and many others. 

Mixed up with these grave and studious persons, gay courtiers 
and gayer ladies jostled old and severe divines and college heads, 


96 JOHN INGLESANT ; [CIIAP. IX. 

and crusty tutors used the sarcasms they had been wont to hurl 
at their pupils to reprove ladies whose conduct appeared to them 
at least far from decorous. Christmas interludes were enacted 
in Hall, and Shakespeare’s plays performed by the King’s players, 
assisted by amateur performers; and it would have been diffi¬ 
cult to say whether the play was performed before the curtain 
or behind it, or whether the actors left their parts behind them 
when the performance was over, or then in fact resumed them. 
The groves and walks of the colleges, and especially Christ 
Church meadow and the Grove at Trinity, were the resort of 
this gay and brilliant throng; the woods were vocal with song 
and music, and love and gallantry sported themselves along the 
pleasant river banks. The })octs and wits vied with each other 
in classic conceits and parodies, wherein the events of the day 
and every individual incident were portrayed and satirized. 
AVit, learning, and religion joined hand in hand, as in some 
grotesque and brilliant masque. The most admired poets and 
players and the most profound mathematicians became “ Roman- 
cists ” and monks, and exhausted all their wit and poetry and 
learning in furthering their divine mission, and finally, as the 
last scenes of this strange drama came on, fell fighting on some 
hardly-contested grassy slope, and were buried on the spot, or in 
the next village churchyard, in the dress in whicli they played 
Philaster, or the Court garb in which they wooed their mistress, 
or the doctor’s gown in which they preached before the King, 
or read Greek in the schools. 

This gaiety was much increased the next year, when the 
Queen came to Oxford, and the last happy days of the ill-fated 
monarch glided by. It w^as really no inapt hybcrbole of the 
classic wits which compared this motley scene to the marriage 
of Jupiter and Juno of old, when all the Gods were invited to 
the feast, and many noble personages besides, but to which also 
came a motley company of mummers, maskers, fantastic phan¬ 
toms, whifflers, thieves, rufflers, gulls, wizards, and monsters, 
and among the rest Crysalus, a Persian Prince, bravely attended, 
clad in rich and gay attire, and of majestic presence, but other¬ 
wise an ass; v horn the Gods at first, seeing him enter in such 
IDomp, rose and saluted, taking him for one worthy of honour 
and high place; and whom Jupiter, perceiving wdi;it he was, 
turned wdtli his retinue into butterflies, who continued in pied 
coats roving about among the Gods and the wiser sort of men. 


A ROMANCE. 


97 


CHAP. IX.] 

Something of this kind here happened, when wisdom and folly, 
vice and piety, learning and gaiety, terrible earnest even to death 
and light frivolity, jostled each other in the stately precincts of 
Parnassus and Olympus. 

With every variety and shade of this strange life Inglesant 
had some acquaintance; the philosophers knew him, the Papists 
confided in him; Cave, the writer of news-letters for the Papists, 
sought him for information; the Church party, who knew hie 
connection with the Archbishop, and the services he had 
rendered him, sought his company; the ladies made use of his 
handsome person and talents for acting, as they did also that 
of his brother. He had the entree to the King at all times, and 
was supposed to be a favom’ite with Charles, though in reality 
the King’s feelings towards him were of a mixed nature. No 
man certainly was better known at Oxford, and no man cer¬ 
tainly knew more of what was going on in England than 
Inglesant did. 

Among the chief beauties of the Court the Lady Isabella 
Thynne was the most conspicuous and the most enterprising: 
the poet Waller sang her praise, music was played before her 
as she walked, and she affected the garb and manner of an angel. 
She was most beautiful, courteous, and charitable; but she 
allowed her gaiety and love of intrigue to lead her into very 
equivocal positions. She was intimately acquainted with 
Eustace Inglesant, wdio w^as one of her devoted servants, and 
assisted her in many of her gaieties and gallant festivals and 
sports; but she was shy of Johnny, and told Eustace that his 
brother was too much of a monk for her taste. She had a bevy 
of ladies, who were her intimate friends, -and were generally 
with her, some of whom she did not improve by her friendship. 

There was in Oxford a gentleman, a Mr. Richard Fentham, 
who was afterwards knighted, a member of the Prince’s Council, 
and a person of great trust with the King. This gentleman 
had been at school with Eustace Inglesant at that famous 
schoolmaster’s Mr. Farnabie, in Cripplegate Parish in London,— 
a school at one time frequented by more than three hundred 
young noblemen and gentlemen, for whose accommodation he 
had handsome houses and large gardens. One day Fentham 
took Eustace Inglesant to call on two young ladies, the daugli- 
ters of Sir John Harris, who had lately come to Oxford to join 
their father, who had suffered heavy losses in tlie i-oyal cause, 


98 


JOHN INGLES A NT; 


[chap. IX, 


and had been made a bai’onet. They found these two young 
ladies, to the eldest of whom Fentham was engaged, in a baker’s 
house ill an obscure street, ill-furnished and mean-looking. They 
were both, especially the eldest, extremely beautiful, and^ had 
been brought up in a way equal to any gentleman’s daughters 
in England, so that the gentlemen could not help condoling with 
them on this lamentable change of fortune, to which they were 
reduced by their lather’s devotion to the royal cause. 

The eldest young lady, Ann, a spirited lively girl, confessed 
it was “a great change from a large well-furnished house to a 
very bad bed in a garret, and from a plentiful table to one dish 
of meat—and that not the best ordered,—with no money, for 
they were as poor as Job, and liad no clothes,” she said, “but 
wliat a man or two had brought in the cloak bags.” Eustace 
Inglesant pursued the acquaintance thus begun; and both he 
and his brother were at Wolvercot Church some time afterwards, 
V hen Kichard Fentham and Mistress Ann were married in the 
jcresence of Sir Edward Hyde, afterwards the Lord Chancellor, 
aud Gcoftry Palmer, the King’s attorney. Lady Fentham was 
much admired and sought after, and became one of Liidy Isa¬ 
bella’s intimate friends. She was a lively, active girl, and fond 
of all kinds of stirring exercise and excitement, and was pecu¬ 
liarly liable to be led into scrapes in such society. Besides 
Lady Isabella, she was also exposed to other teuqDtations from 
political ladies, Avho endeavoured to persuade her that a woman 
of her talent and energy should take some active part in public 
affairs, and get her husband to trust to her the secrets of the 
Prince’s Council. They succeeded so far as to cause her to press 
her husband on this matter, aud to cause some unpleasant feel¬ 
ing on her part, which, but for his kind and forgiving conduct, 
might have led to a serious breach. This danger passed over, 
but those springing from the acquaintance with Lady Isabella 
were much more seiious. Sir Richard was much away at Bristol 
with the Prince, and dining his absence Lady Isabella promoted 

all intimacy between Lord H-, afterwards the Duke of 

P-, and her young friend. In this she was assisted by 

Fustace Inglesaut, who appeared to be actuated by some very 
strange personal motive, which Johnny, v\ ho saw a great deal of 
what was going on, could net penetrate. 

Matters were in this state when one day Shakespeare’s play 
of “ The Comedy of Errors,” or an adaptation of it, was given 




CH4P. TX.] 


A ROMANCE. 


by the gentlemen of the Court, assisted by the King’s players, 
in the Hall at Christ Church. The parts of the brothers Anti- 
pholus were taken by the two Inglesants, who were still said to 
be so exactly alike that mistakes w^ere continually being made 
between them. The play was over early, and the brilliant com¬ 
pany streamed out into the long walk at Christ Church, which 
was already occupied by a motley throng. The players mingled 
with the crowd, and solicited compliments on their several per¬ 
formances. The long avenue presented a singidar and lively 
scene—ladies, courtiers, soldiers in buft' coats, clergymen in their 
gowns and bands, doctors of law and medicine in their hoods, 
heads of houses, beggars, mountebanks, jugglers and musicians, 
popish priests, college servants, country gentlemen, Parliament 
men, and townspeople, all confusedly intermixed; with .the after¬ 
noon sun shining across the broad meadow, under the rustling 
leaves, and lighting up the windows of the Colleges, and the 
windings of the placid river beyond. 

John Inglesant, in the modern Court dress in which, accord¬ 
ing to the fashion of the day, he liad played Antipholus of 
Ephesus, was speaking to Lord Falkland, who had not been at 
the play, but who, grave and melancholy, with his dress neglected 
and in disorder, was speaking of the death of Flampden, which 
had just occmred, when a page spoke to Inglesant, telling him 
that Lady Isabella desired his presence instantly. Eatlier sur¬ 
prised, Inglesant followed him to where the lady was walking, 
a little apart from the crowd, in a path across the meadows 
leading from the main walk. She smiled as Inglesant came 
up. 

“I see, Mr. Esquire Inglesant,” she said, “that the play is 
not over. It was your brother I sent for, whom this stupid boy 
seemingly has sought in Ephesus and not in England.” 

“ I am happy for once to have supplanted my brother, 
madam,” said Johnny, adapting from his part. “I have mil 
hither to your grace, whom only to see now gives me ample 
satisfaction for these deep shames and great indignities.” 

“ I am afraid of you, Mr. Inglesant,” said the lady; “ you 
have so high a reputation with grave and religious people, and 
yet you are a better cavalier than your brother, when you con¬ 
descend that way. That is how you please the Nuns of Gid- 
ding so well.” 

“ Spare the poor Nuns of Gidding your raillery, madam,” 


JOHN INGLESANT ; 


100 


[chap. IX. 


said Iiiglesant; “surely Venus Aphrodite is not jealous of the 
gentle dove.” 

“I will not talk with you, Mr. Inglesant,” said the lady 
pettishly; “ find your brother, I beseech you; his wit is duller 
than yours, but it is more to my taste.” 

Inglesant went to seek his brother; but before he found him 
his attention was arrested from behind, and turning round he 

found his scarf held by Lord H-, who said at once, “ Is the 

day fixed, and the place? have you seen the lady?” 

“ My lord,” said Inglesant, “ the play really is over, though 
no one will believe it. ‘ I think you all have drunk of Circe’s 
Cup.’ I am afraid as many misha[)s wait me here as at 
Ephesus.” 

Lord li-saw his mistake. “ I beg your pardon,” he 

said; “I took you for your brother, who has some business of 
mine in hand. I wish you good day.” 

“ I must get to the bottom of the mischief that is brewing,” 
said Inglesant; “ there is some mystery which I cannot fathom. 
The lady no doubt is pretty Lady Feiitham, but Eustace surely 
can never mean to betray his friend in so foul a way as this.” 

That evening he sought his brother, and telling him all he 
had noticed, and what he had overheard, he begged him to tell 
him the plain facts of what was going on, lest he might add to 
the confusion in his ignorance. Eustace hesitated a little, but 
at last he told him all. 

“ There is no real harm intended, except by Lord H-,” 

lie said; “ Lady Isabella simply wants to make mischief and 
confusion all around her. She has persuaded Ann Fentham to 

encourage Lord H- a little, to lead him into a snare in 

which he is to be exposed to ridicule. There is a lady in Oxford, 
whom you no doubt know, Lady Cardiff, whom, if you know 
her, you know to be one of the most fantastic women now living, 

to bring whom into connection with Lord H-Mrs. Fentham 

has conceived would be great sport; now, to tell you a secret, 
this lady, who entered into this affair merely for excitement and 
sport, is gradually becoming attached to me. I intend to marry 
her with Lady Isabella’s help. She has an immense fortune and 
large parks and houses, and has connections on both sides in this 
war, so that her property is safe whatever befalls. This is a 
profound secret between me and the Lady Isabella, who is under 
obligations to me. Mrs. Fentham knows nothing of it, and is 






CHAl*. IX.] 


A ROMANCE. 


101 


occupied solely with bringing Lord H- and Lady Cardiff 

together. The ladies are going down to Newnham to-morrow. 

I meet them there, and Lord H-is to be allowed to come. 

I intend to j)ress my suit to Lady Cardiff, and certainly by this 
I shall spoil Lady Fentham’s plot; but this is all the harm I 
intend. What will happen besides I really cannot say, but 
nothing beyond a little honest gallantry doubtless.” 

“ But is not such sport very dangerous said John. “ Sup¬ 
pose this intimacy came to Eichard Fentham’s ears, what would 
• he say to it ? You told me there had already been some mis¬ 
chief made by some of the women between them.” 

“ If he hears of it,” said Eustace carelessly, “ it can be ex¬ 
plained to him easily enough ; he is no fool, and is not the man 
to misunderstand an innocent joke.” 

Inglesant was not satisfied, but he had nothing more to say, 
and changed the subject by inquiring about Lady Cardiff, of 
whom he knew little. 

This lady was a peeress in her own right, having inherited 
the title and estates from her father. She had been carefully 
educated, and was learned in many languages. She had acted 
all her life from principles laid down by herself, and different 
from those which governed the actions of other people. She 
had bad health, suffering excruciating pain at frequent intervals 
from headache, which it is supposed unsettled her reason. At 
her principal seat, Oulton, in Dorsetshire, she collected around 
her celebrities and uncommon persons, “Excentrics” as they 
were called, principally great physicians and quacks, and re¬ 
ligious persons and mystic theologians. Van Helmont, the 
great alchemist, spent much time there, attempting to cure her 
disorder or allay her sufferings, and Dr. Henry More of Cam¬ 
bridge condescended to reside some time at Oulton. It was a 
great freestone house, surrounded by gardens, and by a park or 
rather chase of great extent, enclosing large pieces of water, and 
surrounded by wooded and uncultivated country for many miles. 
At the time at which we are arrived, however, her health was 
better than it afterwards became, and she was chiefly ambitious 
of occupying an important position in politics, and of seeing 
every species of life. She was connected with some of the prin¬ 
cipal persons on both sides in the civil contention, and passed 
much time both in London and in Oxford. In both these 
places, but especially in the royal quarters, where greater license 




102 


JOHN INGLESANT ; 


[chap. IX. 


was possible, she endeavoured to be included in anything of an 
exciting and entertaining character that was going on. Whatever 
it was, it afforded her an insight into human nature and the 
manners of the world. Such a character does not seem a, likely 
one to be willing to submit to the restraints of the married life, 
and indeed Lady Cardiff had hitherto rejected the most tempting 
offers, and, as she had attained the mature age of thirty-two, 
mosi people imagined that she would not at that time of life 
exchange her condition. It appeared, however, that her fate 
had at last met her in the handsome person of Eustace Ingle- * 
sant, and the secret which Eustace had told his brother was 
already beginning to be whispered in Oxford, and opinions were 
divided as to whether the boldness of the young man or his 
good fortune were the most to be admired. 

When Inglesant left his brother and walked under the starry 
sky to his lodgings at Wadham, his mind was ill at ease. He 
had taken a great interest in Lady Fentham and her husband; 
indeed, his feelings towards the former were those of an attached 
friend, attracted by her lively innocence and good natime. He 
was, as the reader will remember, still very young, being only in 
his twenty-second year. He was sincerely and vitally religious, 
though his religion might appear to be kept in subordination to 
his taste, and he had formed for himself, from various sources, 
an ideal of purity, which in his mind connected earth to heaven, 
and which, at this period of his life at any rate, he may have 
been said faultlessly to have carried out. The circumstances of 
his youth and early training, which we have endeavoured to 
trace, acting upon a constitution in which the mental power 
dominated, rendered self-restraint natural to him, or rather 
rendered self-restraint needless. It was one of the glories of 
that age that it produced such men as he was, and that not a 
few; men who combined qualities such as, perhaps, no after 
age ever saw united; men like George Herbert, Nicholas Ferrar, 
Falkland, the unusual combination of the courtier and the monk. 
Yet these men were naturally in the minority, and even while 
moulding their age, were still regarded by their age with wonder 
and a certain kind of awe. It is not meant that John Ingle¬ 
sant was altogether a good specimen of this high class of men, 
for he was more of a courtier than he was of a saint. He was 
a sincere believer in a holy life, and strongly desirous of pur¬ 
suing it: he endeavoured conscientiously to listen for the utter- 


CHAP. IX.] 


A ROMANCE 


103 


ances of the Divine Voice; and provided that Voice pointed out 
the path which his tastes and training had prejiared him to 
expect, he would follow it even at a sacrifice to himself; but he 
was not capable of a saciifice of his tastes or of his training. 
On the other hand, as a coiu-tier and man of the world, he was 
[)rofouiidly tolei’ant of en*or and even of vice (provided the latter 
did not entail siiflering on any innocent victim), looking upon it 
as a natural incident in human aftaii’s. This quality had its 
good side, in making him equally tolerant of religious differ¬ 
ences, so that, as has been seen, it was not difficult to him to 
recognize the Divine prompting in a Puritan and an opponent. 
He was acutely sensitive to ridicule, and would as soon have 
thought of going to Court in an improper dress as of speaking of 
religion in a mixed company, or of offering any advice or reproof 
to any one. In the case which was now distm’bing his mind, 
his chief fear was of making himself ridiculous by interfering 
where no interference was necessary. 

He passed a restless night, and the next morning went to 
Trinity Chapel, then much frequented for the high style of 
the music. He was scarcely here before Lady Isabella and 
young Lady Fentham, who lodged in that college, came in, as 
w’as their habit, dressed to resemble angels in loose and very 
inadequate attire. At another time he might not have thought 
much of it, but, his suspicions being aroused, he could not help, 
courtier as he was, contrasting the boldness of this beha^dour 
with the chaste and holy life of the ladies at Little Gidding; 
and it made him still more restless and uncertain what to do. 
He avoided the ladies after Chapel, and retimned to his own 
rooms quite uncertain how to act. It came at last into his 
mind to inquire of the Secretary Falkland whether Sir Richard 
Fentham was expected shortly in Oxfoid, as his journeys were 
very irregular, and generally kept a profound secret. He went 
to Lord Falkland and asked the question, telling him that he 
did so from private reasons unconnected with the State. Falk¬ 
land declined at first to answer him; but on Inglesant’s taking 
him a little more into his confidence, he confided to him, as a 
great secret, that Sir Richard was expected that very night,, 
and fui'ther, that he would pass through Newnham in the 
afternoon, where he would meet a messenger with despatches. 
Upon learning this startling piece of news, Inglesant hastened 
to his brother’s rooms, but found he was too late, Eustace 


104 


JOHN INGLESANT ; 


[chap. IX. 


luiving been gone more than two hours, and as he started con¬ 
siderably after the ladies’ coach, there could be no doubt but 
that the party was already at Newnham. Inglesant went to 
the stables where his horses were kept, and having found one 
of his servants, he ordered his own horse to be saddled, as he 
was going to ride alone. While it was being prepared he 
attempted to form some plan upon which to act when he 
arrived at Newnham, but his ingenuity completely tailed him. 
Merely to walk into a room where some ladies and gentlemen 
were at dinner, to which he was not invited, and inform one of 
the ladies that lier husband was in the neighbourhood, appeared 
an action so absiud that he discarded the intention at once. 
Wlien his horse was brought out and he mounted and rode out 
of Oxford towards the south, telling his servant he should be 
back at night, he probably did not know why he went. He 
rode quickly, and annved in alx)ut an hoim. The Plougli at 
Newnham (it has long disappeared) stood upon the banks of 
the river, in a picturesque and retired situation, and was much 
frequented by parties of pleasure from Oxford. Tlie gardens 
and bowling-greens lay upon the river bank, and the }>aths 
extended from them through the fields both up and down the 
river. It was apparent to Inglesant that a distinguished party 
was in the house, from the serv'^ants loitering about the doors, 
and coming in and out. More than one of these he recognized 

as belonging to Lord H-. The absmrdity of suspecting any 

mischief from so public a re idezvous struck Inglesant as so 
great, that he Avas on the point of passing the house. He 
however alighted and inquired of one of the men whether any 
of his brother’s servants were about. The man, Avho knew him, 
replied that Mr. Eustace Inglesant had dined there with his 
lordship and the ladies, but was then, he believed, either in the 
garden or the fields with Lady Cardiff; he had brought no 
servants with him. Having got thus into conversation with 
the man, Inglesant ventured to inquire, with as careless a 
manner as he could assume, if Lady Isabella were there. 

Lady Isabella, the man said, had dined there, but after 
dinner had gone on a little farther in her coach, and attended 
by her servants, he believed to make some call in the 
neighbourhood. 

Then Inglesant knew that he had done right to come. 

“ I have a message to Lady Ann Eentham,” he said to the 



CHAP. IX.] 


A ROMANCE. 


105 


man, “but not being of the party, I would rather have sent 
it through my brother. As I suppose it is useless to attempt 
to find him, I shall be glad if you will tell me in which room 
the lady is, for I suppose his lordship is with her.” 

“ His lordship left orders that he was not to be disturbed,” 
said the man insolently; “you had better try and find your 
brother.” 

“ Nevertheless, I must give her my message,” said Ingle- 
sant quietly : “therefore, pray show me upstairs.” 

“ I don’t know the room,” said the man still more rudely, 
“ and you cannot go upstairs; his lordship has engaged the 
house.” 

During the conversation the other men had gathered ]-ouiid, 
and it seemed to Inglesant that his lordship must have brought 
all his servants with him, for the house appeared full of them. 
None of the ordinary servants of the place were to be seen. 

Inglesant had no arms but his riding sword, and even if he 
had had, the use of them would have been absurd. 

“You know who I am,” he said, looking the man steadily 
in the face, “ one of the King’s gentlemen whom they call the 
Queen’s favomdte page. I bring a message to Lady Fentham 
from her husband, the Secretary to the Prince’s Council: do 
you think your lord will wish you to stop mef’ 

As he spoke he made a step forward as though to enter, and 
the man, evidently in doubt, stepped slightly on one side, making 
it possible to enter the house. The rest took this movement 
to imply surrender, and one of the youngest, probably to gain 
favour, said, “ The lady is in the room opposite the stairs, sir.” 
Inglesant walked up the low oak staircase to the door, the men 
crowding together in silence at the bottom of the stairs. 

Inglesant tried the latch of the door, though he did not 
intend to go in without knocking. 

The door was fastened, and he knocked. 

For a moment there was silence, and then a voice said, 
angrily, “Who is there?” 

“A message from Sir Richard Fentham,” said Inglesant. 

There was another and a longer pause, and then the same 
voice said,— 

“ Is Sir Richard without ?” 

“No,” replied Inglesant; “but he may be here any 
moment; he is on the road.” 


106 JOHN INGLESANT; [chap. IX. 

The door was immediately opened by his lordship, and 
Iiiglesant walked in. 

The moment he did, Lady Fentham, who was in the further 
part of the room, started up from the seat in which she was 
lying, and throwing herself on Johnny’s shoulder said,— 

“ Help me, Mr. Inglesant, I have been cruelly deceived.” 

Inglesant took no notice of her, but turning to Lord H- 

he said with marked politeness,— 

“ I have to beg your lordship’s pardon for intruding upon 
your company, but I am charged to let Lady Fentham know 
that Sir Richard is expected in Oxford to-night, and may pass 
this house at any time, probably in a few minutes. I thought 
Lady Fentham would wish to know this so much that I ven¬ 
tured to knock, though your servants told me you wished to be 
private.” 

His words were so chosen and his manner so faultless and 

devoid of suspicion, that Lord H- could find nothing in 

either to quarrel with, though he was plainly in a violent 
passion, and with difficulty controlled himself. It had also the 
effect of calming Lady Fentham, who remained silent; indeed, 
she appeared too agitated to spealc It was an awkward pause, 
but less so to Inglesant than to the other two. 

“ I wished,” he continued, still speaking to Lord H-, 

“to have sent my message by my brother, but I find he is 
walking in the fields, and Lady Isabella appears to have gone 
in her carriage to make a call in the neighbourhood. I presume 
she will call for you. Lady Fentham, on her way back.” 

Lady Fentham made a movement of anger, and Lord H- 

roused himself at last to say,— 

“I am much obliged to you, Mr. Inglesant, for the great 
trouble you have taken. I assure you I shall not forget it. 
Lady Fentham, as Sir Richard will so soon be here”—he 
stopped suddenly as an idea struck him, and looking full at 
Inglesant, said slowly and with marked emphasis, “ Supposing 
Mr. Inglesant to ”—to have spoken the truth he would have 
said, but Johnny’s perfectly courteous attitude of calm polite¬ 
ness, the utter absence of any tangible ground of offence, and 
his own instincts as a gentleman, checked him, and he con¬ 
tinued,—“ has not been misinformed, you will not need my 
protection any further. I will leave you with Mr. Inglesant; 
probably Lady Cardiff will be back before long.” 






OHAr. IX.] A ROMANCE. 107 

He took his leave with equal courtesy both to the lady and 
Inglesant, and went down to his men. 

Ann Fentham sank into her chair, and began to sob bitterly, 
saying,— 

‘‘ What shall I say to my husband, Mr. Inglesant ? He will 
be here directly, and will find me alone. What would have 
happened to me if you had not come V’ 

“ If I may offer any advice, madam, I should say. Tell your 
husband everything exactly as it happened. Nothing has 
happened of which you have need to be ashamed. Sir Richard 
will doubtless see that you have been shamefully deceived by 
your friends, as far as I understand the matter. You can trust 
to his sympathy and kindness.” 

She did not reply, and Inglesant, who found his situation 
far more awkward than before, said, “ Shall I seek for Lady 
Cardiff, madam, and bring her to you 

“ No, don’t leave me, Mr. Inglesant,” she said, springing up 
and coming to him ; “I shall bless your name for ever for what 
you have done for me this day.” 

Inglesant stayed with the lady until it was plain Lord 

H-had left the house with his servants, and he then left 

her and went into the garden to endeavom* to find his brother 
and Lady Cardiff; but in this he was not successful, and 
returned to the house, where he ordered some dinner—for he 
had eaten nothing since the morning—and seated himself at 
the window to wait for Sir Richard. He had sat there about 
an hour when the latter arrived, and drew his rein before the 
house before dismounting. Inglesant greeted him and went out 
to him in the porch. Fentham returned his greeting warmly. 

“Your wife is upstairs. Sir Richard,” Inglesant said; “she 
came down with Lady Isabella Thynne, and is waiting for her 
to take her back.” 

Fentham left his horse with the servant and ran upstairs 
straight to his wife, and as Inglesant followed him into the 
house he met Lady Cardiff and his brother, who came in from 
the garden. Eustace Inglesant was radiant, and introduced 
Lady Cardiff to his brother as his future wife. He took them 
into a private room, and called for wine and cakes. Johnny 
thought it best not to tell them what had occurred, but merely 
said that Sir Richard and his wife were upstairs; upon which 
Eustace sent a servant up with his compliments, asking them 



108 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap, IX. 


to come and join them. Both Lady Cardiff and Eustace 
appeared conscious, however, that some blame attached to them, 
for they expressed great surprise at the absence of Lady Isabella, 
and took pains to inform Johnny that they had left Lady Fen- 
tham with her, and had no idea she was going away. Sir 
Bichard and Lady Fentham joined the party, and appeared 
composed and happy, and they had not sat long before Lady 
Isabella’s coach appeared before the door, and her ladyship came 
in. The ladies returned to Oxford in the coach, and the gentle¬ 
men on horseback. Nothing was said by the latter as to what 
had occurred until after they had left Eustace at his lodgings, 
and Johnny was parting with Fentham at the door of Lord 
Falkland, to whom he was going. Then Sir Richard said,— 

“ Mr. Inglesant, my wdfe has told me all, and has told me 
that she OAves everything to you, even to this last blessing, that 
there is no secret between us. I beg you to believe tw’-o things, 
—first, that nothing I can do or say can ever repay the obliga¬ 
tion that I owe to you; secondly, that the blame of this matter 
rests mostly wdth me, in that I have left my wife too much.” 

Inglesant waited for several days in expectation of hearing 

from Lord H-, but no message came. They met several 

times and passed each other with the usual courtesies. At last 
Eustace Inglesant heard from one of his lordship’s friends that 
the latter had been very anxious to meet Johnny, but had been 
dissuaded. 

“You have not the slightest tangible ground of offence against 
young Inglesant,” they told him, “ and you have every cause to 
keep this affair quiet, out of which you have not emerged with 
any great triumph. Inglesant has shown by the line of con¬ 
duct he adopted that he desires to keep it close. None of the 
rest of the party will speak of it for their own sakes. Were it 
knoAvn, it Avould ruin you at once with the King, and damage 
you very much in the estimation of all the principal men here, 
Avho are Sir Richard’s friends, and such as are not would resent 
such conduct towards a man engaged on his master’s business. 
Besides this, you are not a remarkably good fencer, whereas John 
Inglesant is a pupil of the Jesuits, and master of all their arts 
and tricks of stabbing. That he could kill you in five minutes 
if he chose, there can be no doubt.” 

These and other similar argiunents finally persuaded Lord 
11- to restrain his desire of revenge, vv'hich was the easier 



CHAP. IX.] A ROMANCE. 109 

for him to do as Inglesant always treated him when they met 
with marked deference and courtesy. 

The marriage of Lady Cardiff and Eustace Inglesant was 
hurried forward, and took place at Oxford some weeks after the 
foregoing events; the King and Queen being present at the cere¬ 
mony. It was indeed very important to attach this wealthy 
couple unmistakably to the royal party, and no efforts were 
spared for the purpose. Lady Cardiff and her husband, how¬ 
ever, did not manifest any great enthusiasm in the royal cause. 

The music of the wedding festival was interrupted by the 
cannon of Newbury, where Lord Falkland was killed, together 
with a sad roll of gentlemen of honour and repute. Lord 
Clarendon says,—“Such was always the unequal fate that 
attended this melancholy war, that while some obscure, un¬ 
heard-of colonel or officer was missing on the enemy’s side, and 
some citizen’s wife bewailed the loss of her husband, there were 
on the other above twenty officers of the field and persons of 
honoiu’ and public name slain upon the place, and more of the 
same quality hm’t.” In this battle Inglesant was more fortu¬ 
nate than in his first, for he was not hurt, thougli he rode in the 
Lord Biron’s regiment, the same in which Lord Falkland was 
also a volunteer. 

The King returned to Oxford, where Inglesant found every 
one in great dejection of mind; the conduct of the war was 
severely criticised, the army discontented, and the chief com 
manders engaged in reproaches and recriminations. 

One afternoon Inglesant was sent for to Merton College, 
where the Queen lay, and where the King spent ,much of his 
time; where he found the Jesuit standing with the King in 
one of the windows, and Mr. Jermyn, w’ho had just been made 
a baron, talking to the Queen. The King motioned Inglesant 
to approach him, and the Jesuit explained the reason he had 
been sent for. 

The trial of Archbishop Laud was commencing, and in order 
to incite the people against him Mr. Prynne had published the 
particulars of a popish plot in a pamphlet which contained the 
names of many gentlemen, both Protestant and Catholic, the 
publication of which at such a moment excited considerable 
uneasiness among their relations and friends. 

“ I wish you, Mr. Inglesant,” said the King, “ to ride to 
London. Mr. Hall has provided passes for you, and letters to 


110 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap. X. 


several of his friends. The new French Ambassador is landing; 
I wish to know how far the French Court is true to me. 
Prynne’s wut has overreached himself. His charges have 
frightened so many that a reaction is setting in in favour of the 
Archbishop, and many are willing to testify in his favour in 
order to exonerate themselves. You will be of great use in 
finding out these people. Seek every one who is mentioned in 
Prynne’s libel; many of them are men of influence. Your 
familiar converse with Papists, in other respects unfortmiate, 
may be of use here.” 

Inglesant spent some time in London, and was in constant 
communication with Mr. Bell, the Archbishop’s secretary. He 
was successful in procuring evidence from among the Papists of 
their antipatliy to Laud, and in various other ways in providing 
Bell with materials for defence. Laud was informed of these 
acts of friendship, and being in a very low and broken state, 
was deeply touched that a comparative stranger, and one who 
had been under no obligation to him, should show so much 
attachment, and exert himself so much in his service, at a time 
when the greatest danger attended any one so doing, and when 
he seemed deserted both by his royal master and by those on 
whom he had showered benefits in the time of his prosperity. 
He sent his blessing and grateful thanks, the thanks of an old 
and'dying man, which would be all the more valuable as they 
never could be accompanied by any earthly favour. Inglesant’s 
name was associated with that of the Archbishop, and the 
Jesuit’s aim in sending him to London was accofiiplished. 


CHAPTER X. 

Inglesant was of so much use in gaining information, and 
managed to live on such confidential terms with many in 
London in the confidence of members of the Parliament, that 
he remained there during all the early part of the year, and 
would have stayed longer; but the enemies of the Archbishop, 
who ])ursued him with a malignant and remorseless activity, 
set their eyes at last upon the young envoy, and he was advised 
to leave London, at any rate till the trial was over. He was 
very unwilling to leave the Archbishop, but dared not run the 


CHAP. X.] 


A ROMANCE. 


Ill 


risk of being imprisoned, and thwarting the Jesuit’s schemes, 
and therefore left London about the end of May, and returned 
straight to Oxford. 

He left London only a few days before the allied armies of 
Sir W. Waller and the Earl of Essex, and had no sooner arrived 
in Oxford than the news of the advance of the Parliamentary 
forces caused the greatest alarm. The next day Abingdon was 
vacated by some mistake, and the rebels took possession of the 
whole of the country to the east and south of Oxford; Sir 
William Waller being on the south, and the Earl of Essex on 
the east. It was reported in London that the King intended 
to surrender to the Earl’s army, and such a proposition was 
seriously made to the King by his own friends a few days after¬ 
wards in Oxford. The royal army was massed about the city, 
most of the foot being on the north side; Inglesant served with 
the foot in Colonel Lake’s regiment of musketeers and ihkes, 
taking a pike in the front rank. It was a weapon which tlie 
gentlemen of that day frequently practised, and of which he was 
a master. Several other gentlemen volimteers were in the front 
rank with him. The Earl’s army was drawn up at Islip, on 
the other side of the river Cherwell, having marched by Oxford 
the. day before, in open file, drums beating and colours flying, 
so that the King had a full view of them on the bright fine 
day. The Earl himself, with a party of horse, came within 
cannon shot of the city, and the King’s horse charged him 
several times without any great hurt on either side. It was a 
gay and brilliant scene to any one who could look upon it with 
careless and indifferent eyes. 

The next morning a strong party of the Earl’s army en- 
deavoirred to pass the Cherwell at Gosford bridge, where Sir 
Jacob Astley commanded, and where the regiment in which 
Inglesant served was stationed. The bridge was barricaded 
with breast-works and a bastion, but the Parliamentarian army 
attempted to cross the stream both above and below. They 
succeeded in crossing opposite to Colonel Lake’s regiment, under 
a heavy fire from the musketeers, who advanced rank by rank 
between the troops of pikes and a little in advance of them, and 
after giving their fire, wheeled ofi‘ to the right and left, and took 
their places again in the rear. The rebels reserved their fire, 
their men falling at every step; but they still advanced, sup¬ 
ported by troops of horse, till they reached the Royalists, when 


112 


JOHN INGLESANT ; 


[chap. X. 


they delivered their fire, closed their ranks, and charged, their 
horse charging the pikes at the same time. The ranks of the 
royal musketeers halted and closed up, and the pikes drew close 
together shoulder to shoulder, till the rapiers of their officers 
met across the front. The shock was very severe, and the 
struggle for a moment undecided; but the pikes standing per¬ 
fectly firm, owing in a great measure to the number of gentle¬ 
men in the front ranks, and the musketeers fighting with great 
courage, the enemy began to give way, and having been much 
broken before they came to the charge, fell into disorder, and 
were driven back across the stream, the Royalists following them 
to the opposite bank, and even pursuing them up the slope. 
Inglesant had noticed an officer on the opposite side who was 
fighting with great courage, and as they crossed the river he 
saw him stumble and nearly fall, though he appeared to struggle 
forward on the opposite slope to where an old thorn tree broke 
the rank of the pikes. Johnny came close to him and recog¬ 
nized him as the Mr. Thorne whom he had known at Gidding. 
As he knew the regiment would be halted immediately he fell 
out of his rank, leaving his file to the bringer-up or lieutenant 
behind him, and stooped over his old rival, who evidently was 
desperately hurt. He raised his head, and gave him some aqua 
vitce from his flask. The other knew him at once, and tried to 
speak; but his strength was too far gone, and his utterance 
failed him. He seemed to give over the effort, and lay back in 
Inglesant’s arms, staining his friend with his blood. Inglesant 
asked him if he had any mission he would wish performed, but 
the other shook his head, and seemed to give himself to prayer. 
After a minute or two he seemed to rally, and his face became 
very calm. Opening his eyes, he looked at Johnny steadily and 
with afiection, and said, slowly and with difficulty, but still with 
a look of rest and peace,— 

“ Mr. Inglesant, you spoke to me once of standing together 
in a brighter dawn; I did not believe you, but it was true; the 
dawn is breaking—and it is bright.” 

As he spoke a volley of musketry shook the hill-side, and the 
regiment came down the slope at a run, and carrying Inglesant 
with them, crossed the river, and, halting on the other side, 
wheeled about and faced the passage in the same order in which 
they had stood at first. This dangerous manoeuvre was executed 
only just in time, for the enemy advanced in great force to the 


CHAP. X.] 


A KOMANCE. 


113 


river-side; but the Royalists being also very strong, they did 
not attempt to pass. After facing each other for some time, 
the fighting having ceased all along the line, Inglesant spoke to 
his oflicer, and got leave to cross the river with a flag of truce 
to seek his friend. An oflicer from the other side met him, 
most of the enemy’s troops having falleh back some distance 
from the river. He was an old soldier, evidently a Low-coimtry 
oflicer, and not much of a Puritan, and he greeted Inglesant 
politely as a fellow-soldier. 

Inglesant told him his errand, and that he was anxious to 
find out his friend’s body, if, as he feared, he would be found to 
have breathed his last. They went to the old thorn, where, 
indeed, they found Mr. Thorne quite dead. Several of the rebel 
officers gathered round. Mr. Thorne was evidently well known, 
and they spoke of him with respect and regard. Inglesant 
stopped, looking down on him for a few minutes, and then 
turned to go. 

“ Gentlemen,” he said, raising his hat, “ I leave him in 
your care. He was, as you have well said, a brave and a good 
man. I crossed his path twice—once in love and once in war 
—and at both times he acted as a gallant gentleman and a man 
of God. I wish you good day.” 

He turned away, and went down to the river, from which 
his regiment had by this time also fallen back, the others look¬ 
ing after him as he went. 

“ Who is that V’ said a stern and grim-looking Puritan officer. 
“ He does not speak as the graceless Cavaliers mostly do.” 

“ His name is Inglesant,” said a quiet, pale man, in dark 
and plain clothes; “ he is one of the King’s servants, a con¬ 
cealed Papist, and, they say, a Jesuit. I have seen him often 
at Whitehall.” 

“ Thou wilt not see him much longer, brother,” said the 
other grimly, “either at Whitehall or elsewhere. It were a 
good deed to prevent his fiuther deceiving the poor and ignorant 
folk,” and he raised his piece to fire. 

“Scarcely,” said the other quietly, “since he came to do 
us service and courtesy.” But he made no effort to restrain 
the Puritan, looking on, indeed, with a sort of quiet interest as 
to what would happen. 

“Thou art enslaved over much to the customs of this 
world, brother,” said the other, still with his grave smile ; 

I 


114 JOHN INGLESANT; [CHAP. X, 

“ knowest thou not that it is the part of the saints militant to 
root out iniquity from the earth 

He arranged his piece to fire, and would no doubt have done 
so; but the Low-country officer, who had been looking on in 
silence, suddenly threw himself upon the weapon, and wrested 
it out of his hand. 

“ By my soul, INIaster Fight-the-fight,” he said, “ that passes 
a joke. The good cause is well enough, and the saints mili¬ 
tant and triumphant, and all the rest of it; but to shoot a 
man under a flag of truce was never yet required of any saint, 
whether militant or triumphant.” 

The other looked at him severely as he took back his 
weapon. 

“ Thou art in the bonds of iniquity thyself,” he said, “ and 
in the land of darkness and the shadow of death. The Lord’s 
cause will never prosper while it puts tnist in such as thou.” 
But he made no fiu*ther attempt against Inglesant, who, indeed, 
by this time had crossed the river, and was out of musket shot 
on the opposite bank. 

A few days afterwards the King left Oxford and went into 
the West. Inglesant remained in garrison, and took his share 
in all the expeditions of any kind that were undertaken. The 
Roman Catholics were at this time very strong in Oxford; they 
celebrated mass every day, and had frequent sermons at which 
many of the Protestants attended; but it was thought among 
the Church people to be an extreme thing to do, and any of the 
commanders who did it excited suspicion thereby. The Church of 
England people were by this time growing jealous of the power 
and unrestrained license of the Catholics, and the Jesuit warned 
Inglesant to attach himself more to the English Church party, 
and avoid being much seen vdth extreme Papists. Colonel 
Gage, a Papist, was appointed governor by the King; but 
being a very prudent man and a general favourite, as well as an 
excellent officer, the appointment did not give much offence. 
Inglesant was present at Cropredy Bridge, which battle • or 
skirmish was fought after the King retiu'iied to Oxford from his 
hasty march through Worcestershire, and was wounded severely 
in the head by a sword cut—a wound which he thought little 
of at the time, but which long afterwards made itself felt. 
Notwithstanding this wound he intended following the King 
into the West, for His Majesty had latterly shown a greater 


CHAP. X.] 


A ROMANCK 


115 


kindness to him, and a wish to keep him near his person ; but 
Father St. Clare, after an interview with the King, told Ingle- 
sant that he had a mission for him to perform in London, and 
so kept him in Oxford. 

The trial of the Archbishop was dragging slowly on through 
the year, and the Jesuit procured Inglesant another pass and 
directed him to endeavour in every way to assist the Archbishop 
in his trial, without fear of his prosecutors, telling him that he 
could procure his liberation even if he were put in prison, which 
he did not believe he would be. Inglesant, therefore, on his 
return to London, gave himself heartily to assisting the.counsel 
and secretary of the Archbishop, and found himself perfectly 
unmolested in so doing. He lodged at a druggist’s over against 
the Goat Tavern, near Toy Bridge in the Strand, and frequented 
the ordinary at Haycock’s, near the Palsgrave’s Head Tavern, 
where the Parliament men much resorted. Here he met among 
others Sir Henry Blount, who had been a gentleman pensioner 
of the King’s, and had waited on him in his turn to York and 
Edgehill fight, but then, returning to London, walked into 
Westminster Hall, with his sword by his side, so coolly as to 
astonish the Parliamentarians. He was summoned before the 
Parliament, but pleading that he only did his duty as a servant, 
was acquitted. This man, who was a man of judgment and 
experience, was of great use to Inglesant in many ways, and 
put him in the way of finding much that might assist the Arch¬ 
bishop ; but it occurred to Inglesant more than once to doubt 
whether the latter would benefit much by his advocacy, a 
known pupil of the Papists as he was. This caused him to 
keep more quiet than he otherwise would have done; but what 
was doubtless the Jesuit’s chief aim was completely answered; 
for the Church people, both in London and the country, who 
regarded the Archbishop as a martyr, becoming aware of the 
sincere and really usefid exertions that Inglesant had made 
with such untiring .energy, attached themselves entirely to him, 
and took him completely into their confidence, so that he could 
at this time have depended on any of them for assistance and 
support. The different parties were at this time so confused 
and intermixed—the Papists playing in many cases a double 
game—that it would have been difficult for Inglesant, who was 
partly in the confidence of all, to know which way to act, had 
he stood alone. He saw now, more than lie had ever done, 


116 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap. X. 


the intrigues of that party among the Papists who favoured 
the Parliament, and was astonished at their skill and duplicity. 
At last the Commons, failing to find the Archbishop guilty of 
anything worthy of death, passed a Bill of Attainder, as they 
had (lone with Lord Stratford, and con(''emiied him with no 
precedence of law. The Lords hesitated to pass the Bill, and 
on Christmas Eve, 1644, demanded a conference with the 
Commons. The next day was the strangest Christmas Day 
Inglesaut had ever spent. The whole city was ordered to fast 
in the most solemn way by a special ordinance of Parliament, 
and strict inquisition was made to see that this ordinance was 
carried out by the people. Inglesaut was well acquainted with 
Mr. Hale, afterwarcis Chief Justice Hale, one of the Archbishop’s 
counsel, then a young lawyer in Lincoln’s Inn, who, it was said, 
had composed the defence which Mr. Hern, the senior counsel, 
had spoken before the Lords. Johnny spent part of the morn¬ 
ing with this gentleman, and in the afternoon walked down to 
thft Tower from Lincoln’s Inn. The streets were very quiet, 
the shops closed, and a feeling of sadness and dread hung over 
all—at any rate in Inglesant’s mind. At the turnstile at 
Holborn he went into a bookseller’s shop kept by a man named 
Turner, a Papist, who sold popish books and pamphlets. Here 
he found an apothecary, who also was useful to the Catholics, 
making “ Hosts ” for them. These both immediately began 
to speak to Inglesaut about the Archbishop and the Papists, 
expressing their surprise that he should exert himself so much 
in his favour, telling him that the Papists, to a man, hated him 
and desired his death, and that a gentleman lately returned 
from Italy had that very day informed the bookseller that the 
news of the Archbishop’s execution was eagerly expected in 
Rome. The Lords were certain to give w^ay, they said, and 
the Archbishop was as good as dead already. They were evi¬ 
dently very anxious to extract from Inglesaut whether he acted 
on his own responsibility or from the directions of the Jesuit; 
but Inglesaut was much too prudent to commit himself in any 
way. When he had left them he went straight to the Tower, 
where he was admitted to the Archbishop, whom he found 
expecting him. He gave him all the intelligence he could, and 
all the gossip of the day which he had picked up, including the 
sayings of the wits at the taverns and ordinaries respecting the 
trial and the Ai'chbishop, of whom all men’s minds were full. 


CHAP. X.] 


A ROMANCE. 


nr 


Laud was inclined to trust somewhat to the Lords’ resistance, 
and Inglesant had scarcely the heart to refute his opiTiion. He 
told him the feeling of the Papists, and his fear that even the 
Catholics at Oxford were not acting sincerely with him. After 
the failure of the King’s pardon, Laud entertained little hope 
from any other efforts Charles might be disposed to make; but 
Inglesant promised him to ride to Oxford, and see the Jesuit 
again. This he did the next day, before the Committee of the 
Commons met the Lords, -which they did not do till the 2d of 
January. He had a long interview with the Jesuit, and urged 
as strongly as he could the cruelty and impolicy of letting the 
Archbishop die without an effort to save him. 

“What can be done?” said the Jesuit; “the King can do 
nothing. All that he can do in the way of pardon he has done : 
besides, I never see the King; the feeling against the Catholics 
is now so strong that His Majesty dare not hold any conmiuni- 
cations with me.” 

Inglesant inquired what the policy of the Roman Catholic 
Church really was; was it favourable to the King and the 
English Church, or against it ? 

The Jesuit hesitated, but then, with that appearance of 
frankness which always won upon his pupil, he confessed that 
the policy of the Papal Coint had latterly gone very much more 
in favour of the party who wished to destroy the English Church 
than it had formerly done; and that at present the Pope and the 
Catholic powers abroad were only disposed to help the King on 
such terras as he could not accept, and at the same time retain 
the favour of the Church and Protestant party; and he acknow¬ 
ledged that he had himself under-estimated the opposition of the 
bulk of English people to Popery. He then requested Inglesant 
to return to London, and continue to show himself openly in 
support of the Archbishop, assuring him that in this way alone 
could he fit himself for performing a most important service to 
the King, which, he said, he should be soon able to point out 
to him. The old familiar charm, which had lost none of its 
power over Johnny, would, of itself, have been sufficient to 
make him perfectly pliant to the Jesuit’s will. He returned to 
London, but was refused admission to the Arch 1 ishop until after 
the Committee of the Commons had met the Lords, and on the 
3d of January the Lords passed the Bill of Attainder. When 
the news of this reached the Archbishop, he broke off his history, 


118 JOHN INGLESANT; [CIIAP. X. 

which he had written from day to day, and prepared himself for 
death. He petitioned that he might be beheaded instead of 
hanged, and the Commons at last, after much difficulty, granted 
this request. On the 6th of January it was ordered by both 
Houses that he should suffer on the 10th. On the same day 
Inglesant received a special message from the Jesuit in these 
wmrds, in cypher ;—“ Apply for admission to the scaffold; it 
will be gi’anted you.” 

Very much surprised, Inglesant went to Alderman Penning¬ 
ton, J\nd requested admission to attend the Archbishop to the 
scaffold, pleading that he was one of the King’s household, and 
attaclied to the Archbishop from a boy. 

Pennington examined him concerning his being in London, 
his pass, and place of abode, but Inglesant thought more from 
curiosity than from any other motive; for it was evident that 
he knew all about him, and his behaviour in London. He asked 
him-many questions about Oxford and the Catholics, and seemed 
to enjoy any embarrassment that Inglesant Avas i)ut to in reply¬ 
ing. Finally he gave him the warrant of admission, and dis¬ 
missed him. But as he left the room he called him back, and 
said wdth great emphasis,— 

“ I would warn you, young man, to look very well to your 
steps. You are treading a path full of pitfalls, few of which 
you see yourself. All your steps are known, and those are 
known wffio are leading you. They think they hold the wires 
in their own hands, and do not know that they are but the 
puppets themselves. If you are not altogether in the snare of 
the destroyer come out from them, and escape both destruction 
in this world and the WTath that is to come.” 

Inglesant thanked him and took his leave. He could not 
help thinking that there was much truth in the alderman’s 
description of his position. 

The next three days the Archbishop spent in preparing for 
death and composing his speech; and on the day on which he 
was to die, Inglesant found when he reached the Tower, that 
he w^as at his private prayers, at which he continued until 
Pennington arrived to conduct him to the scaffold. When he 
came out and found Inglesant there, he seemed pleased, as well 
he might, for, excepting Stern, his chaplain, the only one who 
was allowed to attend him, he was alone amongst his enemies. 
He ascended the scaffold with a brave and cheerful courage. 


onAP. X.] 


A ROIMANCE. 


119 


some few of the vast crowd assembled reviling him, but the 
greater part preserving a decent and respectful silence. The 
chaplain and Inglesant followed him close, and it was well they 
did so, for a crowd of people, whether by permission or not is 
not known, pressed up upon the scaffold, as Dr. Heylyn s:iid, 
“ upon the theatre to see the tragedy,” so that they pressed upon 
the Archbishop, and scarcely gave him room to die. Inglesant 
had never seen such a wonderful sight before—once afterwards 
he saw one like it, more terrible by far. The little island of 
the scaffold, surrounded by a surging, pressing sea of heads 
and struggling men, covering the whole extent of Tower Hill: 
the houses and windows round full of people, the walls and 
towers behind covered too. People jiressed underneath the 
scaffold; people climbed up the posts and hung suspended by 
the rails that fenced it round; peoj^le pressed up the steps till 
there was scarcely room within the rails to stand. The soldiers 
on guard seemed careless what was done, probably feeling cer¬ 
tain that there was no fear of any attempt to rescue the hated 
priest. 

Inglesant recognized many Churchmen and friends of the 
Archbishop among the crowd, and saw that they recognized him, 
and that his name was passed about among both friends and 
enemies. The Archbishop read his speech with great calmness 
and distinctness, the opening moving many to tears, and when 
he had finished, gave the papers to Stern to give to his other 
chaplains, praying God to bestow His mercies and blessings 
upon them. He spoke to a man named Hind, who sat taking 
ddwn his speech, begging him not to do liim wrong by mistak¬ 
ing him. Then begging the crowd to stand back and give him 
room, he knelt down to the block; but seeing through the 
chinks of the boards the people underneath, he begged that they 
might be removed, as he did not wish that his blood should fall 
upon the heads of the people. Surely no man was ever so 
crowded upon and badgered to his death. Then he took off his 
doublet, and would have addressed himself to prayer, but was 
not allowed to do so in peace; one Sir John Clotworthy, an 
Irishman, pestering him witli religious questions. After he had 
answered one or two meekly, he turned to the executioner and 
forgave him, and kneeling down, after a very short prayer, to 
which Hind listened with Iiis head down and wrote word for 
word, the axe with a single blow cut off his head. He was 


120 


JOHN INGLESANT ; 


[chap. XI, 


■buried in All Hallows Barking, a great crowd of peoj^le attend¬ 
ing him to the grave in silence and great respect,—the Church 
of England service read over him without interruption, though 
it had long been discontinued in all the Churches in London. 

News of his death spread rapidly over England, and was 
received by all Church people with religious fervour as the news 
of a martyrdom; and wherever it was told, it was added that 
Mr. John Inglesant, the King’s servant, who had used every 
effort to aid the Archbishop on his trial, was with him on the 
scaffold to the last. Inglesant returned to Oxford, where the 
Jesuit received him cordially. He had, it would have seemed, 
failed in his mission, for the Archbishop was dead; nevertheless, 
the Jesuit’s aim was fully won. 

On the King’s leaving Oxford, before the advance of General 
Fairfax, Inglesant accompanied him, and was present at the 
battle of Naseby, so fatal to the royal cause. No mention of 
this battle, however, is to be found among the papers from which 
these memoirs are compiled; and the fact that Inglesant was 
present at it is known only by an incidental reference to it at a 
later period. Amid the confusion of the ffight, and the subse¬ 
quent wanderings of the King before he returned to Oxford, it 
is impossible to follow less important events closely, and it does 
not seem clear whether Inglesant met with the Jesuit immedi¬ 
ately after the battle or not. Acting, however, there can be 
no doubt, with his approval, if not by his direction, he appears 
very soon after to have found his way to Gidding, where he 
remained during several weeks. 


CHAPTER XL 

The autumn days pa-sed quickly over, and with them the last 
peaceful hours that Inglesant would know for a long time, and 
that youthful freshness and bloom and peace which he would 
never know again. Such a haven as this, such purity and 
holiness, such rest and repose, lovely as the autumn sunshine 
resting on the foliage and the grass, would never be open to 
him again. It was hug before rest and peace came to him at 
all, and when they did come, under different skies and an altered 
life, it was a rest after a stern battle that left its scars deep in 


CHAP. XI.] 


A ROMANCE. 


121 


his very life; it was apart from every one of his early friends; 
it was imblest by first love and early glimpse of heaven. 

It was about the end of October that he received a message 
from the Jesuit, which was the summons to leave this paradise 
sanctified to him by the holiest moments of his life. The family 
were at evening prayers in the Church when the messenger 
arrived, and Inglesant, as usual, was kneeling where he could 
see ]\Iary Collet, and probably was thinking more of her than 
of the prayers. Nevertheless he remembered afterwards, when 
he thought during the long lonely hours of every moment spent 
at Gidding, that the third collect was being read, and that at 
the words “Lighten our darkness” he looked up at some noise, 
and saw the sunlight from the west window shining into the 
Church upon Mary Collet and the kneeling women, and, beyond 
them, standing in the dark shadow under the window, the 
messenger of the Jesuit whom he knew. He got up quietly 
and went out. From his marriage feast, nay, from the table of 
the Lord, he would have got up all the same had that summons 
come to him. 

His whole life from his boyhood had been so formed upon 
the idea of some day proving himself worthy of the confidence 
reposed in him (that perfect unexpressed confidence which won 
his very nature to a passionate devotion capable of the supreme 
action, whatever it might be, to which all his training had 
tended), that to have faltered at any moment would have been 
more impossible to him than suicide, than any self-contradictory 
action could have been—as impossible as for a proud man to 
become suddenly naturally humble, or a merciful man cruel. 
That there might have been found in the universe a power cap¬ 
able of overmastering this master passion is possible; hitherto, 
however, it had not been found. 

Outside the Church the messenger gave him a letter from 
the Jesuit, which, as usual, was very short. 

“Jack, come to me at Oxford as soon as you can. The 
time for which we have waited is come. The service which 
you and none other can perform, and which I have always fore¬ 
seen for you, is waiting to be accomplished. I depend on you.” 

Inglesant ordered some refreshment to be given to the mes¬ 
senger, and his own horses to be got out. Then he went back 
into the Church, and waited till the prayers were over. 

The family expressed great regret at parting with him; they 


122 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap. XI. 


were in a continual state of apprehension from their Puritan 
neighbours; but Inglesant’s presence was no defence but rather 
the contrary, and it is possible that some of them may have 
been glad that he was going. 

Mary Collet looked sadly and wistfully at him as they stood 
before the porch of the house in the setting sunlight, the long 
shadows resting on the grass, the evening wind murmuring in 
the tall trees and shaking down the falling leaves. 

“ Do you know what this service is she said at last. 

“ I cannot make the slightest guess,” he answered. 

“Whatever it is you will do it]” she asked again. 

“ Certainly; to do otherwise would be to contradict the 
tenor of my life.” 

“ It may be something that your conscience cannot approve,” 
she said. 

“ It is too late to think of that,” he said, smiling; “ I should 
have thought of that years ago, when I was a boy at Westacre, 
and this man came to me as an angel of light—to me, a weak, 
ignorant, country lad—to me, who owe him everything that I 
am, everything that I know, everything—even the power that 
enables me to act for him.” 

Did she remember how he had once offered himself without 
reserve to her, then at least without any reservation in favour of 
this man ? Did she regret that she had not encouraged this 
other attraction, or did she see that the same thing would have 
happened whether she had accepted him or no ] She gave no 
indication of either of these thoughts. 

“ I think you owe something to another,” she said, softly ; 
“to One who knew you before this Jesuit; to One who was 
leading you onward before he came across your path; to One 
who gave you high and noble qualities, without which the 
Jesuit could have given you nothing; to One whom-you have 
professed to love; to One for whose Divine Voice you have 
desired to listen. Johnny, will you listen no longer for it]” 

He never forgot her, standing before him with her hands 
clasped and her eyes raised to his,—the flush of eager speaking 
on her face,—those great eyes, moistened again with tears, that 
jjierced through him to his very soul,—her trembling lip,— 
the irresistible nobleness of her whole figure,—her winning 
manner, through which the lor e she had confessed for him spoke 
in every part. He never saw her again but once—then in how 


CHAP. XI.] 


A ROMANCK 


123 


different a posture and scene; and the beauty of this sight 
never went out of his life, but it produced no effect upon his 
purpose; indeed, how could it, when his purpose was not so 
much a part of him as he was a part of it % He looked at her 
in silence, and his love and admiration spoke out so unmistak¬ 
ably in his look tliat IMary never afterwards doubted that he 
had loved her. He had not power to explain his conduct; he 
could not have told himself why he acted as he did. Amid the 
distracting purposes which tore his heart in twain he could say 
nothing but,— 

“ It may not be so bad as you think.” 

Mary gave him her hand, turned from him, and went into 
the house; and he let her go—her of whom the sight must 
have been to him as that of an angel—he let her go without 
an effort to stay her, even to prolong the sight. His horses 
were waiting, and one of his servants would follow with his 
mails; he mounted and rode away. Tlie sun had set in a 
cloud, and the autumn evening was dark and gloomy, yet he 
rode along without any appearance of depression, steadily and 
quietly, like a man going about some business he has long ex¬ 
pected to perform. I cannot even say he was sad : that moment 
liad come to him which from his boyhood he had looked forward 
to. Now at last he could prove, at any rate to himself, that 
he was equal to that effort which it had been his ideal to 
attempt. 

When Inglesant reached Oxford he sought out the Jesuit, 
and found him alone. The royal affairs were at the lowest ebb. 
Since the battle of Naseby the King had done little but wander 
about like a fugitive. He was now at Oxford; but it was 
doubtful whether he could stay there in safety tlirough the 
winter, and certainly he would not be able to do so after the 
campaign began, unless some change in Iris fortunes meanwhile 
occurred. All this Inglesant knew only too well. The ruin 
of the royal cause, entailing his own ruin and that of all his 
friends, was too palpable to need description. The Jesuit 
therefore at once proceeded to the means which were prepared 
to remedy this disastrous state of things. The Lord Lieutenant 
of Ireland, the Duke of Ormond, had, with the consent of the 
King, concluded a truce with the Irish, who, after long years 
of oppression, spoliation, and misery, had, a few years before, 
broken out suddenly in rebellion, and massacred hundreds of 


124 


JOHN INGLESANT ; 


[chap. XI, 


the unprepared Protestants, men, women, and children, under 
circumstances, as is admitted by Catholics, and is perhaps 
scarcely to be wondered at, of frightful cruelty. A feeling of 
intense hatred and dread of these rebels had consequently filled 
the minds of the English Protestants, both Royalists and Parlia¬ 
mentarians ; a feeling in which horror at murderous savages— 
for as such they not unnaturally regarded the Irish—was united 
with the old hatred and fear of popish massacres and cruelties. 
The Parliament had remonstrated with the King for his supine¬ 
ness in not concluding the war by the extirpation of these 
monsters, and when at last a truce was concluded with them, 
the anger of the Parliament knew no bounds, and even loyal 
Churchmen, although they acknowledged the hard necessity 
which obliged the King to such a step, yet lamented it as one 
of the severest misfortunes which had befallen them. The 
King hoped by this peace not only to be able to recall the 
soldiers who had been engaged against the rebels to his own 
assistance, but also to procure a detachment of Irish soldiers 
for the same purpose from the popish leaders. But the popish 
demands being very excessive, Ormond had not been able to 
advance far towards a settled peace, when, in the previous 
spring, the Lord Herbert (afterwards Earl of Glamorgan), the 
son of the Marquis of Worcester, of a devoted Catholic family, 
and of great influence, announced his intention of going to Ire¬ 
land on private business, and offered to assist the King with 
his influence among the Catholics. He had married a daughter 
of the great Irish house of Thomond, and undoubtedly possessed 
more influence in that island among the Papists than any other 
of the royal party. 

The King eagerly accepted his assistance, and Glamorgan 
afterwards produced a commission, undeniably signed by the 
King, in which he gives him ample powers to treat with the 
Papists, and to grant them any terms whatever which he should 
find necessary, consistent with the royal supremacy and the 
safety of the Protestants. In this extraordinary commission he 
creates him Earl of Glamorgan, bestows on him the Garter and 
George, promise's him the Princess Elizabeth as a wife for his 
son, gives him blank patents of nobility to fill up at his pleasure, 
and promises him on the word of a King to endorse all his actions. 
The only limit which a])pcars to have been set to the Earl was 
an obligation to inform the Lord Lieutenant of all his proceed- 


CHAP. XI.] 


A ROMANCE. 


125 


ings; and the only doubt respecting this commission appears to 
be whether it was filled up before the King signed it, or written 
on a blank signed by the King, in accordance with conclusions 
previously agreed upon between him and the Earl. 

The Earl left Oxford for Ireland, where the Kuncio from 
the Pope had arrived, and proceeded in his negotiations with this 
dignitary and the Supreme Council of the rebel Papists and Irish 
—negotiations in which he found endless difficulties and delays, 
owing chiefly to a mutual distrust of all parties towards each 
other ;—a distrust of the King not unnatural on the part of the 
Irish, who knew that nothing but the utmost distress induced the 
King to treat with them at all, and that to treat with them, or 
at least to make any important concessions to them, was to alien¬ 
ate the whole of the English Protestants—both Eoyalists and 
Parliamentarians—to an implacable degree. The Irish demanded 
perfect freedom of religion; the possession of all Cathedrals and 
Churches; and that all the strong places in Ireland, including 
Dublin, should be in the hands at any rate of English Roman 
Catholics; that the English Papists should be relieved from all 
disabilities ; and that the King in the first Parliament, or settle¬ 
ment of the nation, should ratify and secure all these advantages 
to them. In return for this the Pope offered a large present of 
money, and the Earl was promised 10,000 men from the rebel 
forces—3000 immediately for the relief of Chester, and 7000 
to follow before the end of March. 

In order to realize how repulsive such a proceeding as this 
would appear to the whole English nation, it is necessary to 
recollect the repeated professions of attachment to Protestantism 
on the part of the King, and of his determination to repress 
Popery; the intense hatred of Popery on the part of the Piuitan 
party, and of most of the Church people; and the horror caused 
in all classes by the barbarities of the Irish massacre—something 
similar to the feeling in England during the Sepoy rebellion. 
Ko Irish ever came into England, and the English knew them 
only by report as ferocious, half-naked savages, to which state, 
indeed, centuries of oppression had reduced them. So universal 
was this feeling, that the King dared only proceed in the most 
secret manner; and in a letter to Glamorgan he acknowledges 
that the circumstances are such that he cannot do more than 
hint at his wishes, promising him again, on the word of a King, 
to ratify all his actions, and to regard his proceedings with addi- 


126 


JOHN INGLESANT ; 


[chap, XI. 


tional gratitude if they were conducted without insisting nicely 
on positive written orders, which it was impossible to give. 

Communications between the Earl and tlie Court continued 
to be kept up, and the former represented the progress of the 
negotiations as satisfactory; but the state of the King’s affairs 
became so pressing, especially with regard to the relief of Chester, 
which was reduced to great distress, that it was absolutely 
necessary that some envoy should be sent to Ireland to hasten 
the treaty, and if possible assist the Earl to convince the Supreme 
Council of the good faith of the King; and it was also as import¬ 
ant that an equally qualified agent should go to Chester to pre¬ 
pare the leaders there to receive the Irish contingent, and to 
encourage them to hold out longer in expectation of it. 

“There is no man so suited to both these missions as yoiu*- 
self,” said the Jesuit. “You are a King’s servant and a Pro¬ 
testant, and you will therefore have weight with the rebel 
Council in Ireland. Still more, as you are a Chiu'chman and a 
favourite with the Chm-ch people—especially since the death of 
the Archbishop—you will be able to prepare the mind of the 
Lord Biron and the commanders at Chester to receive the Irish 
troops favourably; they will believe that you act by the King’s 
direction, and will not know anything of the concessions which 
have been made in Ireland. You are ready to undertake it 1” 

Inglesant hesitated for a moment, but then he said simply 
and without effort,— 

“I am ready; I will do my best; but there are some things 
I should like to ask.” 

“ Ask what you will,” said the Jesuit, quickly; “ everything 
I know I will tell you.” 

“As a Churchman,” said Inglesant, “if I lend myself to 
this plan I shall be considered by all Churchmen to have 
betrayed my religion, and to have done my best to ruin my 
comitry as a Protestant country. Is not this the case?” 

“Probably,” said the Jesuit, after a moment’s hesitation. 

“ Shall I have any authority direct from the King for what 
Ido?” 

“I have advised not,” said the Jesuit; “but His Majesty 
thinks that you will need some other warrant, both in Ireland 
and at Chester, than the mere fact of your belonging to the 
Household. He therefore intends to give you an interview, and 
also a written commission signed by himself.” 


ciiAr. XL] A ROMANCE. 127 

“ And in case the whole scheme miscarries and becomes 
public?” said Inglesant. 

“ I cannot answer,” said the Jesuit, “ for what course His 
Majesty may be advised to take; but in your case it will, of 
course, be your duty to preserve the strictest silence as to what 
has passed between the King and yoiuself.” 

“ Then if I fall into the hands of the Parliament,” Inglesant 
said, “my connection with the King will be repudiated?” 

“His Majesty pledges his word as a King”—began the 
Jesuit. 

Inglesant made a slight impatient motion with his head, 
which the other saw, and instantly stopped. 

He raised his eyes to Inglesant, and looked fully in his face 
for a moment; then, with that supreme instinct which taught 
liim at once how to deal with men, he said :— 

“If the necessities of the State demand it, all knowledge 
of this affair will be denied by the King.” 

“ That is all I have to say,” said Inglesant; “ I am ready 
to go.” 

The next day Inglesant saw the King. The interview was 
very short. The King referred him to Father St. Clare for all 
iiistmctions, telling him distinctly that all the instructions he 
would receive from him would have his approval, urging him to 
use all his efforts to assist Lord Glamorgan, but at all events 
to lose no time, after seeing his Lordshij:), in getting to Chester, 
and, when there, to use every exertion to induce the Cavaliers to 
receive the Irish troops, as they, no doubt, would be glad in 
their extremity to do. He received a few lines written by the 
King in his presence and signed, requiring all to whom he might 
show them to give credit to what he might tell them as if it 
came direct from the King. The King gave him his hand to 
kiss, and dismissed him. 

Inglesant lost no time in reaching Bristol, taking with him 
all that remained of his money, considerable sums of which he 
had from time to time lent to the King. He found a vessel 
sailing for Waterford, and was fortunate enough to reach that 
harbour without loss of time. He did not stay by the ship 
while she went up to the city, but landed at Dunmore, and 
immediately took horses to Kilkenny. There he found the Earl 
and the Papal Nuncio engaged in negotiations with each other, 
and witli the Supreme Council, the principal difficulty being an 


128 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap. XI. 


intense distrust of the King. The Kuncio, John Baptista 
Rinuccini, Archbishop of Fermo, was of a noble family of 
Florence, and of long experience at the Coiu’t of Rome. He 
appeared pleased to see Inglesant, and came to visit him 
privately at his lodgings, where he entered.into a long discourse 
with him, endeavoming to find out the real standing and 
authority of the Earl, and whether the Fling could be trusted 
or not. Inglesant, who spoke both French and Italian as well 
as Latin, was able to enter very fully and freely into the state 
of affairs with him. He told him that the only way to gain 
any advantages which the Catholics might have in view was to 
assist the King promptly and effectively at once; that the 
King could only be enabled to fulfil his promises by being 
placed in a strong and independent position; and that if, by 
delays and half measures, the help was postponed till it was too 
late, or the negotiations became publicly known, the King 
would be powerless to fulfil his promises, and w^ould be com¬ 
pelled to repudiate them altogether. He submitted to the 
Nuncio that, even supposing the King’s good faith was doubt¬ 
ful, he wns much more likely to be favourable to the Catholics, 
when restored to power, than the Parliament and the Piu'itan 
faction would ever be; he reminded the Nuncio of the great 
favour and leniency which had ever been shown to the Romanists 
during the King’s reign, and he spoke warmly of the base in¬ 
gratitude which had been shown to the King by that party 
among the Catholics who had intrigued with the Parliament 
against a King, very many of whose troubles had arisen from 
his leniency towards their religion. 

The Nimcio was evidently much impressed with Inglesant’s 
arguments, and wtis very coiuteous in his expressions of regard, 
assuring Inglesant that he should not forget to mention so 
excellent and intelligent a friend of the Romish Church in Rome 
itself, and that he- hoped he might some time see him there, 
and receive him into closer relations to that glorious and tender 
mother. 

Inglesant saw the Earl immediately after this interview; he 
found him perplexed and discouraged with the difficulties of 
his position. He introduced Inglesant to several of the Supreme 
Council, and many days were taken up in argument and 
negotiations. At last both Inglesant and the Earl agreed that 
the most important thing for him to do was to get to Chester 


CHAP. XII.] 


A ROMANCE. 


129 


without loss of time, as the delays and negotiations were so 
great that there was imminent danger that the city would be 
surrendered before the treaty could be completed. Inglesant 
therefore left Kilkenny immediately, and, posting to Dublin 
without loss of time, embarked for Anglesea, and arrived there 
on the 29th of December. Here he procured horses, and, cross¬ 
ing the island, he passed over into Flintshire and proceeded 
towards Chester. It was exceedingly unfortunate that he had 
not arrived a few days before, as the Parliamentary army, hav¬ 
ing lately received a reinforcement of Colonel Booth and the 
Lancashire forces who had just reduced Latham ‘ House, had 
now entirely surrounded the city, guarding with sufficient force 
every gate and avenue, causing a great scarcity of provisions, 
and rendering it almost impossible for any one to gain admission 
to the garrison. 


CHAPTER XII. 

Lord Biron and some of the Commissioners who were associated 
with him in the defence of the city were at supper in a long, 
low room in the Castle on the evening of the 12th of January. 
Lord Biron and more than one of the noblemen and gentlemen 
then in Chester had their ladies with them, but they lived 
apart, mostly at Sir Francis GammuFs house in the Lower 
Bridge Street, opposite to St. Olave’s Church, and were pro¬ 
vided for rather better than the rest; but the commanders par¬ 
took of exactly the same food as the rest of the besieged, and 
their supper that night consisted of nothing but boiled wheat, 
with water to drink. The conversation was very flat, for the 
condition of the besieged was becoming utterly hopeless; and 
although they had rejected several offers of capitulation, they 
foresaw that it could not be long before they should be obliged 
to submit. The town had been singularly free from discontent 
and mutiny, and Lord Biron’s high position and renown made 
him particularly fitted for the post he filled; but he felt that 
the task before him was well-nigh hopeless. He sat buried in 
thought, few of the other gentlemen present spoke, and they 
were on the point of separating. Lord Biron to make the round 
of the walls, when a servant came up from the court below, 
saying that there was a man below in the dress of a miner, 

K 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


130 


[chap. XII. 


who said he was Mr. Inglesant, the King’s gentleman, and 
wished to see liis lordship. 

“ Who did you say V’ exclaimed Lord Biron, and the others 
crowded round in excitement, “Inglesant, the King’s Esquire?” 

“John Inglesant.” 

“The Esquire of the body?” 

“No doubt from Oxford and the King. ’ 

“ Plow could he have have got in ?” 

“In the dress of a miner, he says.” 

“Perhaps the King is near at hand?” 

“ At any rate he has not forgotten us.’' 

“ He has used his Jesuit’s teaching to some purpose.” 

These and many other exclamations were uttered while 
Lord Biron told the servant to send Inglesant up at once. He 
entered the room in his miner’s dress, his hands and face stained 
with dust, his hair matted and hanging over his eyes. He 
carried a large kind of bag, such as the miners used, and his 
first action was to place it on the table, and to remove from it 
five or six bottles of claret, a large ham, and a goose. 

“ I knew you were somewhat short here,” he said, “ and I 
ran the risk of bringing these things, though I do not know, if 
I had been caught, that it would have told much against me, 
for we miners live well, I can tell your lordship.” 

“But how on earth did you get in?” said Lord Biron, 
“and where have you come from?” 

“ I thought I never should have got in,” he replied. “ The 
leaguer is well kept, and there is scarcely a weak point. But I 
fear,” he added sadly, “ from the state I find you in, it really 
mattered little whether I got in or not.” 

“ Oh, never say that,” said Lord Biron cheerily; .“ the sight 
of 3^011 is a corps of relief in itself. Come in here and let me 
hear what you have to say. I will not keep the news a moment 
from you, gentlemen,” he added courteously to the rest. 

“If you will pardon me, my lord,” said Inglesant, “and 
allow me a moment to wash this dirt ofi’, and if some one will lend 
me a suit of clothes, it would be a coiu'tesy. I had to leave 
my own in Flintshire, and these are none of the pleasantest. 
My news will keep a few minutes, and your lordship will be 
all the better for a glass or two of this claret, which is not the 
worst you ever drank.” 

Lord Biron toolt him into another room, and left him to 


CHAP. XII.] 


A ROMANCE. 


131 


change his dress, lending him one of his own suits of clothes. 
Inglesant really wished to gain time, and also to say what he 
had to say with every advantage of appearance and manner, for 
he felt that his mission was a diificult one—how difficult he felt 
he did not know. 

When he came hack he found the gentlemen had opened 
one of the bottles, and were drinking the wine very frugally, 
but with infinite relish. They were warm in their thanks to 
Inglesant, and in congratulations on his improved appeai'ance. 
Lord Biron took him on one side at once. 

Inglesant had a letter for him from the Duke of Ormond, 
which the Duke had given him unsealed, telling him to read it. 
John Inglesant had done so several times during his journey, 
and did not altogether like its contents. The Duke alluded by 
name to Lord Glamorgan, and mentioned the number (10,000) 
of the troops intended to be sent to England. Neither fact 
would Inglesant have wished to communicate himself, at any 
rate at once, and he had resolved not to deliver the letter until 
he saw how Lord Biron took the rather vague information he 
intended to give him. But there is always this difficulty with 
negotiations of this kind, that while the first requisite is entire 
frankness, the least caution, even at the beginning, may convey 
a sense of suspicion which nothing afterwards can remove. 
Inglesant felt, therefore, that he should have to watch Lord 
Biron most closely, and decide instantly, and on the spur of the 
moment, when to tmst him and to what extent. 

He began, after Lord Biron had expressed his cordial 
admiration at his exploit and his sense of obligation, by telling 
him he came direct from Lord Ormond, in Dublin, and that his 
object in getting into Chester was to let them know that they 
might expect relief from Ireland, at most within a few days, 
and to urge them to hold out to the last moment and the last 
bag of wheat. 

Without appearing to do so, he watched Lord Biron 
narrowly as he spoke, and saw that he expected to hear a 
great deal more than this vague account. 

He went on telling him of his interview with Ormond, of 
the King’s great anxiety for the relief of Chester, and the 
difficulties the Lord Lieutenant met with in treating with the 
Irish; but he saw that Lord Biron was manifestly getting 
impatient. At last the latter said,— 


132 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[CHAP. XII. 


“But you have not told me, Mr. Inglesant, where this 
relief is to come from. Ormond has no troops to spare—he 
has told us so often ; indeed, all the troops that could be spared 
jmssed through Chester years ago when the truce was first pro¬ 
claimed. He must keep all his to keep those murderous 
villains, the Irish Papists, in check. They will respect no 
truce. We hear something of Lord Glamorgan; have you seen 
him in Ireland 1 Have you no letter from Ormond to me 

Inglesant saw that he must trust him at once to a very 
great extent. • 

“ I have a letter from the Duke to you,” he said; “ but I 
wish first to show you this warrant the King gave me at Oxford, 
that you may see I do not speak without his authority. When 
he gave me that, he told me all the negotiations which the 
Duke was engaged in, at his desire, with the Irish Papists; 
and all that I tell you has been done with his sanction. As to 
Lord Glamorgan, I saw him at Kilkenny; he is sti iving all he 
can to second the Lord Lieutenant’s efforts with the Irish and the 
Papal Nuncio, and he has the fullest warrant from the King.” 

Lord Birou read the warrant from the King carefully more 
than once; then returned it, and took Lord Ormond’s letter, 
which he also read once or twice. 

Inglesant walked to the window and looked out. 

“ The letter is not sealed, Mr. Inglesant,” Lord Biron said. 

“ No,” said Inglesant, “ the Duke insisted on my bringing 
it open, and on my reading it. I requested him to seal it, but 
he refused.” 

“ And you have read it 

“ Certainly.” 

“ I see he speaks of a veiy large contingent—10,000 men, 
and that Glamorgan is to get them entirely from the Irish 
Papists. Ten thousand Irish Papists and murderers in England, 
Mr. Inglesant, is not what I should like to see, and I do not 
like the negotiation being intrusted so much to Glamorgan, a 
determined Papist. We know not what concessions he may 
make unknown to the King. I beg your pardon for my plaiu 
speaking ; they say you are half a Papist yourself.” 

“ You will only have 3000 men sent here,” said Inglesant, 
“ and from what I saw in Ireland I fear it may be some time 
before the rest follow. Besides, surely, my lord, nothing can 
be worse than your present state here.” 


A ROMANCE. 


133 


CHAP. XII.] 

It is sad enough, certainly, but there may be things much 
worse. I tell you, sir, I would rather die of hunger on these 
walls than see my country given over to murderous Irish rebels 
and savage Kerns. And bad as the King’s affairs are at present, 
I am convinced that His Majesty would endure all gladly, rather 
than make any concessions to such as these,—much less expose 
England to their ravages.” 

“The troops who will be sent will be under the strictest 
orders, and commanded by gentlemen of honour and rank,” said 
Inglesant; “ and I assure your lordship, upon my sacred word 
of honour as a Christian, that nothing wdll be attempted but 
what has His Majesty’s cordial consent.” 

Lord Biron was unsatisfied, but Inglesant considered he 
had achieved a success ; his lordship had plainly not the least 
suspicious feeling towards him, all his dissatisfaction arising 
from his dislike to the means proposed for his relief. He 
would, moreover, hold out as long as possible, and this all the 
more as he saw help approaching, from w^hatever source it came. 

They went back to the other officers, and communicated the 
news to them, rather to their disappointment; for Inglesant 
having spoken some words of encouragement to the soldiers of 
the guard below, the report had run through Chester that the' 
King w^as at hand with 3000 horse. The effect, however, which 
Inglesant’s news produced in Chester was altogether exhilarating. 
Officers, soldiers, and inhabitants set to work wdth redoubled 
vigour, and Inglesant became a hero wherever he went, and 
was introduced to Lady Biron and the ladies, who received him 
with gratitude, as though he had already raised the siege. He 
was himself, however, very far from being at ease, as day after 
day passed and no signs of help appeared. Lord Biron, though 
showing the greatest signs of confidence openly, had evidently 
become more and more hopeless, and continually sought oppor¬ 
tunities of speaking to Inglesant privately : and Inglesant found 
it impossible to avoid letting him see more and more into the 
real facts of the case; so that the Duke and his share in the 
negotiations fell, day by day, deeper into the shade, and Lord 
Glamorgan and his share appeared every day in greater promi¬ 
nence. Lord Biron expressed himself increasingly dissatisfied, 
and suspicious that such negotiations did not originate with the 
King; but as no help cr troops of any kind appeared, these 
imaginary dangers were not of much import. Sir Williaro 


134 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap. XII. 


Brereton, the Parliamentary commander, was continually send- 
injr letters summoning them to surrender. Nine of these they 
refused, but when there appeared no longer any hopes of succour. 
Lord Biron answered the tenth. To this Sir William answered, 
upbraiding Lord Biron with having delayed so long, “every day 
producing loss of blood and expense of treasure,” but offering 
to appoint commissioners to treat on the terms of surrender. 
This letter was received on the 26th of January, and the same 
day Lord Biron replied. Sir William’s answer came the next 
day, and the same morning, that is on the 27th of January, an 
event occurred which decided Lord Biron to surrender, and at 
the same time sealed Inglesant’s fate. 

Early in the forenoon a rumour spread through Chester, the 
source of which could not be discovered, but which no doubt 
arose from some soldiers’ gossip between the outposts. It was 
said that some great Earl (Lord Glamorgan’s name was imme¬ 
diately introduced into the report, but whether it was in the 
original rumour is doubtful) had been arrested in Ireland, for 
having concluded in the King’s name, but without his sanction, 
a treaty with the Irish rebels and Papists, by which the latter 
were relieved from all disabilities and restored to the command 
of the island, in return for which they agreed to march a large 
army into England, to destroy the Parliament and the Protestant 
party, and restore the King and Popery. This report, garnished 
with great variety of additional horrors, spread rapidly through 
the city, and about ten o’clock reached Lord Biron’s ears. 
Chiming in as it did with his worst suspicions, it excited and 
alarmed him not a little. His first thought was of Inglesant, 
and he sent at once to his lodgings to know if he was within. 
Inglesant had spent the whole of the night at one of the advanced 
bastions, where, having some reason to believe that the enemy 
were working a mine, the garrison made a sortie, and, wearied 
out, had come home to his room in the Bridge Street to rest. 
His wounds, and especially the one in his head, which had been 
supposed to be cured, began to affect him again, probably 
through exhaustion, excitement, and want of food, and for 
several days he had felt a giddiness and confusion of brain 
which at times was so great that he scarcely knew what he 
did. He had scarcely fallen asleep on the great bed in the 
small room, crowded with the valuables of the good people of 
the house in which he lodged, when the messenger from the 


CHAP. XII.] 


A ROMANCE. 


135 


governor entered the room and aroused him. Sending the man 
back before him he waited a few minutes to collect his foculties 
and arrange his dress, and then followed him to the Castle. 
He found Lord Biron in the state dining-room, a noble room, 
handsomely furnished, with large windows at the end overlook¬ 
ing the Dee estuary, and a great carved fireplace, before which 
Lord Biron was standing impatiently awaiting him. 

“Mr. Inglesant,” he said, as he entered the room, “you 
showed me once a commission from His Majesty; will you let 
me see it again 

Inglesant, who had heard nothing of the rumour that had 
caused such dismay, and who suspected nothing, immediately 
produced the paper and handed it to Lord Biron, who took out 
another from his pocket, and compared the two carefully to¬ 
gether, going to the window to do so. 

Then, coming back to Inglesant, and holding the two papers 
fast in his hand, he said :— 

“ Mr. Inglesant, I have heard this morning, what I have 
reason to believe is true, that the Lord Glamorgan has been 
arrested in Dublin by the King’s Council for granting the 
Papists terms in the King’s name, and'conspiring to bring over 
a Papist army into England. Have you any knowledge of such 
matters as these V’ 

Inglesant’s astonishment and dismay were so unfeigned that 
Lord Biron saw at once that such news was most unexpected 
by him. He had indeed, among all the dangers he was on his 
guard against, never calculated upon such as this. Distasteful 
as he supposed the negotiations with the Papists would be to 
numbers of the Church party, the idea never entered his mind 
that any loyal authorities would take upon them, without com¬ 
municating with the King, the resiionsibility of arresting the 
negotiations or making them public, and this with a high hand, 
presupposing that they were without the King’s sanction. But, 
supposing this extraordinary news to be true, he saw at once an 
end to his efforts,—he saw himself at once helpless and deserted, 
nothing before him but long imprisonment and perhaps death. 

He stood for some moments looking at Lord Biron, the pic^ 
ture of astonishment and dismay. At last, he said,— 

'“I cannot think, my lord, that such news can be true. 
What possible motive could the Council have to take such a 
step ? I give you my word of honour as a Christian, that Lord 


136 JOHN INGLES ANT; [CHAP. XII. 

Glamorgan has done nothing but what he had authority for 
from the King.” 

“ You are much in his confidence evidently, sir,” said Lord 
Biron severely; “ but I am inclined to believe my information 
nevertheless.” 

“But he had commission and Avarrants signed by the King 
himself; and private letters from him, which Avould have 
removed all suspicion,” said Inglesant. 

“Yes, sir, no doubt he had commissions, professedly from 
the King, as you have,” said Lord Biron still more severely. 
“Your commission names Lord Glamorgan, and you are evi¬ 
dently of one council with him. AVill you pledge me your 
honour that this paper was Avritten b}’’ the King 'i ” 

And he held out Inglesant’s commission. 

Johnny hesitated: the circumstances of the case were be¬ 
ginning to arrange themselves before him, racked and Aveary as 
his brain was. If this news Avere true, if the Lord Lieutenant 
and the Council had really disclaimed, in the King’s name, the 
negotiations, and boldly before the world proclaimed them 
unauthorized, and the warrants a forgery, the game was evi¬ 
dently played out, and his course clear before him, dark and 
gloomy enough. Yet he thought he Avould make one effort to 
recover the paper, a matter, Avhatever might turn out, of the 
first importance to the King. 

“ If I swear to you. Lord Biron, that the King Avrote it, 
Avill you give it me back ? ” 

“ I am sorry, sir, that I cannot,” said Lord Biron. “ I am 
grieved at my heart to do anything Avhich Avould seem to doubt 
in the least the Avord of a gentleman such as I have always 
believed you to be ; but in the post I hold, and in the crisis of 
an affair so terribly important as this, I must act as my poor 
judgment leads me. I cannot give this paper up to any one 
until I learn more of this distressing business.” 

“ If I swear to you,” said Inglesant, beaten at every point, 
but fighting to the last, “ that it is the King’s Avriting, Avill 
you give me your Avord of honour that you Avill burn it im¬ 
mediately 

“ No, sir,” said the other loftily ; “ Avhat the King has been 
pleased to write, it can be the duty of no man to conceal.” 

“ Then it is not the King’s,” said Inglesant. 

Lord Biron stared at him for a moment, then folded up the 


CHAP. XII. J 


A ROMANCE. 


137 


papers carefully, and replaced them in his pocket-case. Then 
he went to the door of the dining-room at the top of the stairs 
and called down. 

“ Without! send up a guard.’’ 

Inglesant unhooked his sword from the scarf, and handed it 
to Lord Biron without a word. Then he said,— 

“ It can be of no advantage to me now, may probably tell 
against me, when I entreat your lordship to believe me when I 
tell you, as I hope for salvation before the throne of God, that 
if you burn that paper now you will be glad of it every day 
you live.” 

“ I certainly shall not bum it, sir,” said the other, speaking 
now with a cold disdain. And he turned his back upon Ingle¬ 
sant, and stood looking at the fire. 

Johnny went to the window and looked out. The bright 
winter’s sun was shining on the walls and roofs of the town, 
on the dancing waves of the estuary, and on the green oak banks 
of Flintshire beyond. He remembered the view long afterwards, 
as we remember that on which the eye rests almost unconsciously 
in any supreme moment of our lives. 

Presently the guard came up. 

“ This gentleman is under arrest,” said Lord Biron to the 
sergeant; “ you will secure him in one of the strong rooms of 
the tower, and see that he has fire and his full share of pro¬ 
visions until the garrison is relieved; but no one must be 
admitted to see him, and you are responsible for his person to 
me. You can send word to your servant to bring you anything 
you may want from your lodgings, Mr. Inglesant,” he said, 
“ but he must not come to you, and all the things must pass 
through my hands.” 

Inglesant bowed. “ I have to thank you for the courtesy. 
Lord Biron,” he said; “ I have nothing to complain of in yoiu* 
treatment of me.” 

The other turned away, half impatiently, and Inglesant 
followed the sergeant to his room, the guard following one by 
one, through the passages and up the narrow staircase of the 
tower. 

It was a pleasant room enough, fitted with glass windows 
strongly barred. The sergeant caused a fire to be lighted, and 
left Inglesant to himself. 

It was the first time he had ever been imprisoned, and iis 


138 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap. xir. 


the door locked upon him that temble feeling crept over him 
which the first sense of incarceration always brings,—a name¬ 
less dread and a frantic desire of escape, of again mixing with 
fellow-men. But to Inglesant this sad feeling was increased 
immensely by the circumstances that smTOunded him, and the 
peculiar nature of his position. The very nature of his position 
debarred him from all hope, cut him off from all help alike from 
friend and foe. Those who in any other case woiild be most 
forward to help him were now his jailers, nay, he was turned 
by this strange reverse into his own jailer and enemy; debaiTcd 
from attempting anything to help himself, he must actually 
employ all his energies in riveting the chains more tightly on 
his limbs, in preparing the gallows himself. Exposed to the 
contempt and hatred of all his friends, of those dearer to him 
than friends, he could make no effort to clear himself, nay, 
every word he spoke must be nicely calculated to increase their 
aversion and contempt. He was worn and ill and half-starved, 
and his brain was full of confusion and strange noises, yet the 
idea of faltering in his course never so much as presented itself 
to him. The Jesuit’s work was fully done. 

The next day the Commissioners for the sirrrender of the city 
met, and the day after Sir William Brereton’s Commissioners 
made a formal announcement of the news that had been received 
from Ireland. Lord Glamorgan, they said, had arrived in Dublin 
from Kilkenny. The 26th of December was fixed for him to 
appear before the Council, but in the meantime letters were 
received by several persons in Dublin giving an accoimt of some 
papers found on the person of the titulary Archbishop of Tuam, 
who was slain in an encounter at Sligo in October. The papers 
contained the details of the treaty come to between Lord Gla¬ 
morgan and the Papists, which details threw the Council into 
such dismay that they concluded that if such things were once 
published, and they could be believed to be done by His 
Majesty’s authority, they could have no less fatal an effect 
than to make all men conclude all the former scandals cast 
upon His Majesty of the inciting the Irish Rebellion true; 
that the King was a Papist, and designed to introduce Popery 
even by ways the most unkingly and perfidious; and conse¬ 
quently, that there would be a general revolt of all good Pro¬ 
testants from him. Now, the Council, considering all this, and 
also hearing that the affair was already public through Dublin, 


CHAP. XII.] 


A ROMANCE. 


139 


and beginning to work such dangerous effects that they did not 
consider themselves safe, they concluded that the only course 
open to them was to arrest Lord Glamorgan in the Coimcil, 
which was accordingly done on the 26th of December. 

The Commissioners also informed Lord Biron that they 
were told that there were many Irish in'Chester, born of Irish 
parents, who had formerly served in the rebel armies in Ireland, 
and that also there was even then in Chester an emissary from 
Lord Glamorgan. They therefore demanded that these Irish 
should be exempted from the general terms of surrender, and 
made over to them as prisoners of war, and that the emissary 
from Lord Glamorgan should also be given up to . them as a 
traitor, seeing that he was condemned by the royal party as 
well as by themselves. 

To this it was answered by Lord Biron’s Commissioners 
that the Irish—such at least as were born of Irish parents 
and had served with the rebels—should be delivered as they 
requested, and that as to l\Ir. Inglesant, the emissary alluded 
to, he was already under arrest on the charge of treason, and 
should remain so until more of this affair could be known, 
when, if the truth aj^peared to be as was supposed, he should 
be given up also. 

With this the Parliamentary Commissioners professed them¬ 
selves satisfied, and the treaty was proceeded with, and on the 
3d of February Chester was formally surrendered. On the 
same day Sir William Brereton informed Lord Biron that the 
King, in a message to the Parliament, dated from Oxford, 
January 29, utterly repudiated all knowledge of the Earl of 
Glamorgan’s proceedings, and denied that he had given him 
any authority whatever to treat with the Irish Papists. Sir 
William added, he supposed Lord Biron would no longer have 
any scruple to surrender the person of Lord Glamorgan’s emis¬ 
sary, as by so doing could he alone convince men of the sincerity 
of his belief in the King’s freedom from complicity in his de¬ 
signs. Lord Biron answered that he had nothing to object to 
in this, and would give Mr. Inglesant up, and indeed it was not 
in his power to do anything else. On the 3d day of February 
the Parliamentary forces were marched into the town, and Lord 
Biron with his lady, and the rest of the noblemen and gentlemen 
and their ladies, prepared to leave. According to the articles of 
the treaty, carriages were provided for them and their goods. 


140 


JOHN inglesant; 


[chap. XII. 


and a party of horse appointed to convey them to Conway. 
The ladies and gentlemen were assembled at Sir Francis Gani’ 
mill’s in the Lower Bridge Street. The street was blocked with 
carriages and horses, and carts full of goods; companies of foot 
were forcing their way through ; the overhanging rows and 
houses were full of people, the Church bells were ringing, the 
Parliamentary officers passing to and fro. There was a certain 
amount of relief and gaiety in all hearts; the Royalists were 
relieved from the hardships of the siege, and were expecting to 
go to their homes; the Parliamentarians, of course, were 
jubilant. The principal inhabitants of Chester were the worst 
off, but even they looked forward to a time of quiet, and to the 
possibility of at last retrieving their losses and their position 
in the town. Amid all this confusion and bustle, a sergeant’s 
guard entered the room where Inglesant was confined, and de¬ 
sired him to accompany them to the commander, that the trans¬ 
fer of his person might be arranged. He followed them out of 
the Castle, by St. Mary’s Church, and up the short street into 
the Bridge Street, at the corner of which Sir Francis Gammul’s 
house stood. Forcing his way through the crowd that gaped 
and pressed upon them, the sergeant conducted Inglesant into 
the house, and up into one of the principal rooms, where the 
commanders and the ladies and many others were assembled. 
A crowd of curious spectators pressed after them to the door as 
soon as it was known whom the sergeant had brought; a dead 
silence fell upon the whole company, and the two commanders, 
who were seated at a table, on which were the articles of sur¬ 
render, rose and gazed at Inglesant. A confused murmur, the 
nature of which it would have been difficult to describe, ran 
through the room, and the ladies pressed together, with mingled 
timidity and curiosity, to look on. Inglesant was thin and pale, 
his clothes shabby and uncared for, his hair and moustache un¬ 
dressed, his whole demeanour cowed and dispirited—very differ¬ 
ent in appearance from the fine gentleman who had played 
Philaster before the Court. Doubtless,|many among the Royal¬ 
ists pitied him; but at present no doubts were felt, or at any 
rate had time to circulate, of the King’s sincerity, and the dis¬ 
like to the Jesuits, even by the High Church Loyalists, closed 
their hearts against him. The Lord Biron asked him whether 
he had anything to say before he was delivered over to Sir 
William, to which he replied,— 


CHAP. XII.] 


A ROMANCE. 


141 


“ No.” 

He made no effort to speak to any one, or to salute Lady 
Biron or any of his acquaintances, but stood patiently, his eyes 
fixed on the ground. 

Sir William asked whether he adhered to his statement that 
the commission he had exhibited was a forgery 1 

At which he looked up steadily, and said,— 

“ Yes ; it w^as not wu'itten by the King.” 

As he made the avowal a murmur of indignation passed 
through the room, and Sir William ordered him to be removed, 
telling him he should be examined to-morrow, the account of 
his answers sent up to London, and the will of the Parliament 
communicated to him as soon as possible. Inglesant bowed in 
reply and turned to leave the room, making no effort to salute 
or take leave of any one ; but Lord Biron stopped him with a 
gesture, and said, probably actuated by some feeling which he 
could not have explained,— 

“I wush you good-day, Mr. Inglesant. I may never see 
you again.” 

Inglesant looked up, a slight flush passing over his features, 
and their eyes met. 

“ I wish you good-day, my lord,” he said ; “ you have acted 
as a faithful servant of the King.” 

Lord Biron made no fiu'ther effort to detain him, and he 
left the room. 

The next day he w\as brought up before Sir William Brere- 
ton, and examined at great length. He stated that the plot had 
originated with the Roman Catholics, especially the Jesuits, whose 
envoy Lord Glamorgan was; that all the warrants and papers 
were forged by them, and that he had received his instructions 
and the King’s commission from Father St. Clare himself. He 
stated that if the design failed, the King was to know nothing 
of it, and if it succeeded it was supposed that he would pardon 
the offenders on consideration of the benefits he would receive. 
A vast mass of evidence was taken by Sir William from Irish 
soldiers, inhabitants of Chester, and people of every description, 
relative to what had taken place in the city, and all was sent to 
London to the Parliament. In the course of a few days orders 
came down to bring Inglesant up to town, together with some of 
the most important witnesses, to be examined before a Committee 
of the House of Commons; and this was accordingly done at 


142 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap. xirr. 


once, Sir William Brereton accompanying his prisoner and con¬ 
veying him by easy stages to London, where he was confined 
in St. James’s Palace till the will of the Parliament should be 
known. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

When the news of the arrest of the Earl of Glamorgan reached 
Oxford, it caused the greatest consternation, and the King wrote 
letters in his own name and in that of the Chancellor, to the 
Parliament, and to all the principal politicians, denying all par¬ 
ticipation in or knowledge of his negotiations. 

The most violent excitement prevailed on the subject all 
over England. All parties, except the Papists, joined in ex¬ 
pressing the most lively horror and indignation at proposals 
which not only repudiated the policy of the last hundred years, 
and let loose the Papists to pursue their coiu'se unimpeded, but 
also placed England at the mercy of the most repulsive and 
lawless of the followers of the Roman Catholic faith. The bar¬ 
barities of the Irish rebels, which were sufficiently horrible, 
were magnified by rumour on every side ; and the horror which 
the English conceived at the thought of their homes being laid 
open to those monsters, was only equalled by their indignation 
against those who had conceived so treasonable and unnatural 
a plot. Besides this, the King having denied all knowledge of 
such negotiations, the indignation of all loyal Churchmen was 
excited against those who had so treasonably and miserably 
done all they could to compromise the King’s name, and make 
him odious to all right-thinking Englishmen. The known actors 
in this affair being very few, consisting, indeed, only of the Earl 
and Inglesant, and of the Jesuits (which last was a vague and 
intangible designation, standing in the ordinary English mind 
merely as a synonym for all that was wicked, base, and danger¬ 
ous), and the Earl being, moreover, out of reach, the public 
indignation concentrated on Inglesant, and his life would have 
been worth little had he fallen into the hands of the mob. 
When the news of the fall of Chester and of Inglesant’s arrest 
and subsequent transference to the Parliamentary commander, 
reached Oxford, the King sent for the Jesuit privately, and re¬ 
ceived him in his cabinet at Christ Church. 


CHAP. XIII.] A ROMANCE. 143 

The King appeared anxious and ill, and as though he did 
not know where to turn or what to do. 

“You have heard the news, Father, I suppose,” he said. 
“Lord Biron, as well as Dighy, lias taken upon himself to keep 
the King’s conscience, and know the King’s mind better than 
he does himself. How many Kings there are in England now, 
I do not know, but I have ever found my most faithful servants 
my most strict masters. You know Jack Inglesant has been 
given over to the rebels ? What are we to do for him V 

“Your Majesty can do nothing,” said the Jesuit. “All 
that could be done has been done, and as far as may be has 
been done well. All that your Llajesty has to do now is to be 
silent.” 

“ Then Inglesant must be given up,” said the King. 

“ He must be given up. Your Majesty has no choice.” 

“Another!” said the King, bitterl 3 ^ “Strafford, whose 
blood tinges every sight I see I Laud, Glamorgan, now another 1 
What right have I to suppose my servants will be faithful to 
me, when I give them u^d, one by one, without a word ?” 

“Your Majesty does not discriminate,” said the Jesuit; 
“your good heart overpowers your clearer reason. It is as 
much yom* duty for the good of the State, to be deaf to the 
voice of private feeling and friendship, as it is for your servants 
to be deaf to all but the call of duty to your iffajesty; and this 
your servants know, and do not dream that they have any cause 
to complain. Strafford and the Archbishop both acknowledged 
this, and now it will be the same again. There is no fear of 
John Inglesant, your Majesty.” 

“No,” said the King, rising and pacing the closet with 
unequal steps, “there is no fear of John Inglesant, I believe 
you. There is no fear that any man will betray his friends, 
and be false to his Order and his plighted word, except the 
King I—except the King !” 

Apparently the Jesuit did not think it worth while to 
answer this outbreak, for he said, after a pause,— 

“ Your Majesty has written to Glamorgan f’ 

“Yes, I have told him to keep quiet,” said the King, sitting 
down again; “ he is in no danger—I am clear of him. But 
do you mean to say. Father, that Inglesant must be left to the 
gallows without a word ?” 

“No, I do not say that, your Majesty,” said the other; 


144 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap. xiir. 


“ the rebels will do nothing in a hiury, you may depend. They 
will do all they can to get something from him which may be 
useful against your Majesty, and it will be months before they 
have done with him, I have good friends among them, and 
shall know all that happens. When they are tired of him, and 
the thing is blown over a little, I shall do what I can.” 

“ And you are sure of him,” said the King; “ any evidence 
signed by him would be fatal indeed.” 

“Your Majesty may be quite easy,” said the other, “I am 
sure of him.” 

“ They will threaten him with the gallows,” said the King; 
“ life is sweet to most men.” 

“ I suppose it is,” said the Jesuit, as if it were an assertion 
he had heard several times lately, and began to think he must 
believe; “ I have no experience in such matters. But, however 
sAveet it may be, its sweetness will not induce John Inglesant 
to utter a syllable against the cause in which he is engaged.” 

“You are very confident of your pupil,” said the King. 
“ I hope you will not be deceived.” 

The Jesuit smiled, but did not seem to think it necessary to 
make any further protestations, and soon after left the closet. 

. ^ 

Inglesant remained some time in confinement at St. James’s 
before he was summoned before the Parliamentary Committee, 
but at the beginning of March another of those extraordinary 
events occurred which seemed arranged by some providential hand 
to fight against the King. A packet boat put into Padstow, in 
Cornwall, supposing it to be a royal garrison; on discovering 
their mistake, and some slight resistance having been over¬ 
powered, the captain threw a packet of letters and some loose 
papers overboard. The papers Avere losl, but the packet Avas 
fished out of the sea, and proved to contain the most important 
of the correspondence from Lord Digby, describing the discovery of 
the plot, the articles of agreement with the Papists, the copy of 
the Avarrant from the King to the Earl of Glamorgan, and several 
letters from the Earl himself, all asserting his innocence of any 
actions but those directed and approved by the King. These 
letters Avere published in extenso by the Parliament in a pamphlet 
AA-hich a])peared on tlie 17 th of klarch. The information con¬ 
tained in these papers Avas of the greatest use to the Parliament, 
for, tliough there Avas notliing in them absolutely to inculpate the 


CHAP. XIII.] 


A ROMANCE. 


145 


King (indeed the letters of Lord Digby, as far as they went, 
were strong proofs to the contrary), yet it placed it in their 
power to make assertions and inquiries based upon fact, and it 
brought forward Lord Glamorgan as an evidence on their side. 
If they could now have produced a confession signed by Ingle- 
sant to the same effect, the case would have been almost com¬ 
plete—at any rate few would have hesitated to call the moral 
proof certain. A Committee of the Commons was appointed to 
examine Inglesant, and he was summoned to appear before them. 

On the day appointed he was brought from St. James’s across 
the Park in a sedan, guarded by soldiers, and not being recog¬ 
nized escaped without any notice from the passers-by. 

The Committee sat in one of the rooms of the Parliament 
House, and began by asking Inglesant his name. 

“ I understand,” said one of the members savagely, “ that 
your name is Inglesant, of a family of courtiers and sycophants, 
who for generations have earned their wretched food by doing 
any kind of dirty work the Court set them ; and that they never 
failed to do it so as to earn a reputation even among the mean 
reptiles of the Court precincts. This is true, is it not 1 And 
you have held some of those posts which an honest man would 
scorn.” 

Inglesant had recovered his health during his imprisonment, 
thanks to rest and sufficient food, and his manner was quiet and 
confident To the attack of the Parliamentarian he answered 
simply,— 

“ My name is Inglesant; I have been Esquire of the Body 
to the King.” 

The Chairman checked the warmth of the Puritan, and 
began to question Inglesant concerning the plot, endeavom-ing 
to throw him off his guard by mentioning facts which had come 
to their knowledge through the recent discoveries. But Ingle¬ 
sant was prepared with his story. Though he was surprised at 
the amount of knowledge the Committee possessed, yet he stood 
to his assertion that he knew nothing of any instructions except 
those which he had himself received, and that the whole plot 
originated with the Jesuits, as far as he knew, and had every 
reason to believe. When he was asked how he, a Protestant 
and a Churchman, could lend himself to such a plot, he replied 
that he was very much inclined to the Romish Church, and that 
he thought the King’s affairs so desperate that the plan of 

L 


146 


JOHN INGLESANT; [^HAP. Xlll. 

obtaining help from the Irish rebels appeared to him and to 
Father St. Clare as almost the only resource left to them. The 
Committee, finding gentle means fail, adopted a sterner tone, 
telling him he was guilty of high treason, without benefit, and 
that he might certainly, on his own confession, be condemned 
to the gallows without further trial. They then offered him a 
statement to sign, which, they said, they had sure information 
contained nothing but the truth. Inglesant looked at it, and 
saw that in truth it did contain a very fair statement of what 
had really taken place. 

He replied that it was impossible for him to sign anything 
so opposite to what he had himself confessed; and that even if 
he did, no one would believe so monstrous a statement, and one 
so contrary to the known opinions and professions of the King. 

The Committee then asked him why, if the King’s commis¬ 
sion was forged, it was kept bac>k, and where it was 1 

Inglesant said that “ the Lord Biron had it, having forcibly 
taken it from him, and refused to return it, telling him plainly 
tliat he should keep it as evidence against him.” 

He observed that this impressed the Committee, and he was 
soon after dismissed. He returned to St. James’s the same way 
that he came, but found a strong guard summoned to attend 
liiiii; for, the news of his examination having got wind, the 
crowd assembled at the Parliament House, and accompanied 
liim, with bootings and insults of every kind, across the Park, 

As one result of his examination, Inglesant was removed 
from St. James’s, and sent by water to the Tower, where a close 
confinement in a small cell, and insufficient diet, again afiected 
his health. He formed the idea that the Parliament intended 
to weaken him with long imprisonment, and so cause him to 
confess what they wished; he feared that the state of his health, 
and especially the extent to which his brain was affected, wouhl 
assist this purpose; and this fear preyed upon him, and made 
him nervous and miserable—drejiding above everything that, 
his mind being clouded, he might say something inadvertently 
which might discover the truth. His health rapidly declined, 
and he became again thin and worn. The Parliament Com¬ 
mittee now spread a report that the royal party, who pretended 
to indicate the offenders in this plot, did not really do so; and 
that in j)articular they kept back the originals of the King’s 
v'arrants and commissions, which they asserted to l^e forgeries, 


A ROMANCE. 


147 


CHAP, XIII.] 

and refused to bring them forward and submit them to proof, 
which would be the surest way of making the fact of the King’s 
ignorance of them certain. They did this because they knew 
Lord Biron’s character as a man of unstained and imsuspicious 
honour, and they calculated that such a taunt as this would be 
certain to bring him forward with the commission, which he had 
in his keeping, and which they trusted to be able to prove was 
a genuine document. Their policy had the desired effect. Lord 
Biron, who was at Kewstead, without consulting any one, sent 
up a special messenger to the Speaker to say that, a safe-conduct 
being granted him, he would come up to London, and appear 
before the Committee of Parliament, bringing the commission, 
which he asserted was a palpable forgery, with him. The safe- 
conduct was immediately sent him, and he came up. The 
Committee were rejoiced at the success of their policy, and fixed 
a day for him to appear before them, and at the same time 
ordered Inglesant to be fetched up from the Tower to be con¬ 
fronted with his lordship. The affair caused the greatest in¬ 
terest, and the Committee Room was thronged with all who 
could command sufficient influence to obtain entrance, and crowds 
filled the corridors and the precincts of the House. Lord Biron 
was introduced, and gave his evidence with great clearness, 
describing the arrest of Inglesant, his suspicious conduct, and 
his attempt to induce Lord Biron to destroy the warrant; and 
finally produced the paper, and handed it to the clerk of the 
Committee. The Chairman then ordered Inglesant to be brought 
in through a side door, and he came up to the bar. 

His appearance was so altered, and his manner so cowed and 
embarrassed, that a murmur ran through the room, and Lord 
Biron could not restrain an exclamation of pity. Inglesant 
started when he saw him, for he had been kept in complete 
ignorance of what had occurred, and his mind immediately 
recurred to the commission. He was evidently making the 
greatest efforts to collect himself and keep himself calm. 
Nothing could have told more against himself, or in favour of 
the part he was playing, than his whole demeanour. 

He was examined minutely on the circumstances of his arrest, 
and related everything exactly as it occurred, which, indeed, he 
had done before—both his relations tallying exactly with Lord 
Biron’s. 

When asked what his business was in Chester, he said—to 


148 JOHN INGLESANT; [crap. xm. 

prepare the Cavaliers to receive the Irish help; and added that 
he had been obliged to communicate a great deal more to Lord 
Biron than he had wished or intended, and that Lord Biron 
had always manifested the greatest suspicion of him and of his 
mission. 

He gave his evidence steadily, but without looking at Lord 
Biron, or indeed at any one. 

When asked svhy he wished to recover possession of the 
commission, or at least to induce Lord Biron to burn it, he 
replied,— 

“ Lest it should serve as evidence against myself.” 

This seemed to most present a very natural answer; yet it 
caused Lord Biron to start, and to fix a searching glance on 
Inglesant. 

As a gentleman of high breeding and instinctive honour, 
it jarred upon his instinct, and conveyed a sudden suspicion 
tliat Inglesant was acting. That the latter might be so utterly 
perverted by his Jesuit teaching as to be lost to all sense of 
ri'^ht and truth, he was prepared to believe; that he might 
liave been led into treason knowingly or inadvertently, he was 
willing to think; but the low and pitiful motive that he gave 
w'as so opposed to his previous character, notorious for a fan¬ 
tastic elevation and refinement of sentiment, that it supposed 
him a monster, or that some miracle had been wrought upon 
him. A terrible doubt—a doubt which Biron had once or 
twice already seen faintly in the distance—approached nearer 
and looked him in the face. 

The Committee had examined the commission one by one, 
comparing it wdth some of the King’s writing which they had 
before them; finally it passed into the hands of a Mr. Green- 
Avay, a huvyer skilled in questions of evidence and of writing, 
who examined it attentively. 

It w^as curious to see the behaviour of the two men under 
examination while this was going on; Lord Biron, as a noble 
gentleman, from whose mind the doubt of a few minutes ago 
had passed, standing erect and confident, looking haughtily and 
freely at the expert, secure in his own honour and in that of 
his King: Inglesant, cowed and anxious, leaning forward over 
the bar, his eyes fixed also on the lawyer — pale, his lips 
twitching,—the very picture of the guilty prisoner in the 
doclv. 


CHAP. XIII.] A ROMANCE. 149 

The expert looked at both the men curiously, then threw 
down the paper contemptuously. 

“ It is a palpable forgery,” he said; “ and not even a clever 
imitation of the King’s hand.” 

And indeed, from some accident or other, the letters were, 
some of them, formed in a manner unusual to the King. 

Inglesant, weakened with illness and anxiety, could not 
restrain a movement of intense relief. He drew a long breath 
and stood erect, as if relieved from an oppressive weight. He 
raised his eyes, and they caught those of Lord Biron, which had 
been attracted towards him, and were fixed full on his face. 

Biron started again; there was not the least doubt that 
Inglesant rejoiced in the proof of the forgery of the warrant. 
That terrible doubt stood close now before his lordship, and 
grasped him by the throat. 

Suppose, after all, this man whom he had imprisoned and 
despised, whose mission he had thwarted—this man whom all 
the royal party were calling by every contemptuous name, who 
stood there pale, cowed, beaten down;—suppose, after all, that 
this man, alone against these terrible odds, was all the time 
fighting a desperate battle for the King’s honour, forsaken by 
God and men! But the consequences which would follow, if 
this view of the matter were the true one, were, in Lord Biron’s 
estimation, too terrible to be thought of. 

“I wish to say,” said Inglesant, looking straight before 
him, “ that the Lord Biron obtained possession of that paper 
when he was in possession of information of which I was 
ignorant. His lordship would probably liave behaved differently, 
but he thought he was speaking to a thief.” 

There was something in this covert reproach, so worded, 
which so exactly accorded with what was passing in Lord 
Biron’s mind that it cut him to the quick. 

“I assure you, Mr. Inglesant,” he said eagerly, “you are 
mistaken. Whatever I may think of the cause in which you 
are engaged, I have always wished to behave to you as to a 
gentleman. If you consider that you have cause of complaint 
against me, I shall be ready, when these unhappy complications 
are well over, as I trust they may be, to give you satisfaction 
and to beg your pardon afterwards.” 

He said tliese last words so pointedly that Inglesant started, 
and saw at once that his tear had been well founded, and that, 


150 JOHN inglesant; [chap. XIII. 

thrown off his guard by the success of the examination of the 
warrant, he had made a mistake. He looked ap quickly at 
Bipon—a strange terror in his face—and their eyes met. 

That they understood eacli other is probable; at any rate 
Inglesant’s look was so full of warning that Biron understood 
tJmt if nothing more, and restrained himself at once. All this 
had passed almost unnoticed by the Committee, who were con¬ 
sulting together. 

Lord Biron left the room, and Inglesant was taken back to 
the Tower as he had come. Mr. Secretary Milton, who had 
been present as a spectator, left the Parliament House and pro¬ 
ceeded at once to Clerkenwell Green to the house of General 
Cromwell, and related to him and to General Ireton, who was 
with him, what had occiuTed. 

“ They have gained nothing by getting this warrant,” he 
said; “nay, you have lost, rather. You have brought up 
Lord Biron, who comes forward in the light of day and with 
the utmost confidence, and challenges this paper to be a forgery, 
and yoim own lawyers bear him out in it. I have not the least 
doubt it is the King’s; but some of the letters, either purposely 
or more probably by accident, are not in his usual hand, and 
the best judges cannot agree on these matters. Out of Ingle¬ 
sant you will get nothing. He is a consummate actor, as I 
have known of old. He is prepared at every point, and care¬ 
fully trained by his masters the Jesuits. I know these men, 
and have seen them both here and abroad. Acting on select 
natures the training is perfect. They will go to death more 
indifferently than to a Court ball. You may rack them to the 
extremity of anguish, and in the delirium of pain they will say 
what they have been trained to say, and not the truth. You 
may wear him out with fasting and anxiety until he makes 
some mistake; he made two to-day, besides one which was a 
necessity of the case,—for I do not see what else he could have 
said,—that was so slight that no one saw it but Biron. Weak¬ 
ened by anxiety, doubtless, he could not restrain a movement 
of relief when the expert declared the warrant a forgery; Biron 
saw that too, for I watched him. Last, which was the greatest 
mistake of all, and would show that his training is not entirely 
perfect, were we not to make allowance for his broken health, 
he forgot his part, and suffered his passion to get the better of 
him, and to taunt Lord Biron in such a way that Biron, who I 


CHAP. XIII.] 


A ROMANCE. 


151 


think till then honestly believed the King’s word^ very nearly 
let out the truth fti his astonishment. But what do you gaiu 
by all this ? It rather adds to the apparent truth of the man’s 
story, and gives life to his evidence. Nothing but his written 
testimony will be of any use, and this you will never get.” 

He shall be tried for his life at any rate,” said Cromwell. 

“ You have threatened him with that already.” 

“ Threatening is one thing,” replied the General, to stand 
beneath the gallows condemned to dqath anotlier.” 

% * * * * 

News of the taking of Chester and of the arrest of John 
Inglesant on such a terrible charge—a charge at once of treason 
against the King, his country, and his religion—as it travelled 
at once over England, reached Gidding in due course. It <}aused 
the greatest dismay and distress in that quiet household. About 
the middle of April a gentleman of Huntingdon, a Parliament 
man, who had lately come from London, dined with the family. 
He told them during dinner that he had been present in the 
Committee Room when Mr. Inglesant had been examined. 
When dinner was over Mr. John Ferrar, who was now at the 
head of the family, remained at table with this gentleman, being 
anxious to hear more, and Mary Collet also stayed to hear what 
she could of her friend, watching every word with eager eyes. 
In that family, where there was nothing but love and kindliness 
and entire sympathy, it was thought only natural that she should 
do so, and no ill-natured thought occurred to any member of it. 
The Parliament man described more at full the examination 
before the Committee, and Inglesant’s worn and guilty appear¬ 
ance,—sad news, indeed, to both his hearers. He described Lord 
Biron’s examination, and the production of the forged warrant. 

And did John Inglesant admit that it was forged 1” said 
Mr. Ferrar. 

“Yes, he said from his own knowledge that it was prepared 
by Father St. Clare the Jesuit.” 

“ It is a strange world,” said Mr. Ferrar dreamily, “ and 
the Divine call seems to lead some of us into slippery places^ 
scarcely the heavenly places in Christ of which the Apostle 
dreamt.” 

The gentleman did not understand him, nor did Maiy 
Collet altogether until afterwards. 

Presently Mr. Ferrar said,— 


152 JOHN INGLESANT; [CHAP. XIII. 

“ And what do you think of it all 1 AVas the warrant 
forged or not V’ 

“I am somewhat at a loss what to think,” said the other, 
“ I am not, as you know, Mr. Ferrar, and without wishing to 
offend you, an admirer of the King, but I do not believe him 
to be a fool and mad. There is no doubt that he has tamjiered 
with the Papists throughout, yet I cannot think, unless he is in 
greater extremities than we suppose, that he would have prac¬ 
tised so wild and mad a scheme as this one of the Irish rebels 
and murderers. On the other hand, I can conceive nothing too 
bad for the Jesuits to attempt; and it seems to me that I can 
discern something of their hand in this—an introduction of an 
armed Papist force into the country, to be joined, doubtless, by 
all the English Papists; only I should have thought they could 
have procured this without bringing in the King’s name, but 
doubtless they had some reason for this also. The general 
opinion among the Parliament men is that the warrant is the 
King’s, and that he has planned the whole thing. On tlie other 
hand, it is plain the Cavaliers do not believe it, or Lord Biron 
would never have come boldly up of his own accord, and brought 
up the warrant so confidently.” 

“ But does not the warrant itself prove something one way 
or the other?” said Mr. Ferrar. 

“ These things are very difficult to judge upon,” said the 
gentleman. “ Tlie expert to whom the Committee gave it pro¬ 
nounced it a forgery upon the spot, but he lias been greatly 
blamed for precipitancy ; and others to whom it has been shown 
pronounce it genuine. Some of the letters certainly are not 
like the King’s, but the style of the hand is the King’s they 
say, even in these unusual letters. By the way, if you had seen 
Ingle^ant’s guilty look when the expert took the paper in his 
hand, you would say with me it was a forgery. You could not, 
to my mind, have a stronger proof.” 

“ But if the King had ordered this, would not he help Mr. 
Inglesant?” Mary Collet ventured to say. 

“ Help ? madam,” said the gentleman warmly; “ when did 
the King help any of his friends?” 

“ Whichever way it is,” said Mr. Ferrar mildly, “ he cannot 
help. To lielp would be to condemn himself in public opinion, 
whi(;h in these unhappy distractions he dare not do. Did Lord 
Biron speak to Mr. Inglesant, ?ir ?” 


CHAP. XIII.] 


A ROMANCE. 


153 


“Very little. They taunted each other once, and seemed 
about to come to blows. All the evidence went to show that 
Lord Biron suspected him from the first.” 

The gentleman soon after left. Mr. Ferrar returned to the 
dining-room after seeing him to his horse, and found Mary Collet 
sitting where they had left her, lost in sad and humiliating 
thought. 

He sat down near her and said kindly,— 

“My dear Mrs. Mary, I hardly know which of the two 
alternatives is the best for your friend—for my friend; but it 
is better at least for you to know the truth, and I think I can 
now pretty much tell which is the true one. If this plot were 
altogether the Jesuits’, John Inglesant would not say it. If 
the King had no hand in it, proof would be given a thousand 
ways without having recourse to this. There are other facts 
which to my mind are conclusive that this way of thinking is 
the right one, but I need not tell them all to you. What I 
have said I should say to none but you. You will see that it 
is of the utmost importance that you say nothing of it to any. 
I believe you may comfort yourself in thinking that, according 
to the light which is given him, John Inglesant is following 
what he believes to be his duty, and none can say at any rate 
that it is a smooth and easy path he has chosen to walk in.” 

Mary Collet thanked him, her beautiful eyes full of tears, 
and left the room. 

A few days afterwards the news ran like wildfire over 
England that the King had left Oxford secretly, and that no one 
knew where he was; and a night or two afterwards Mr. John 
Ferrar was called up by a gentleman who said he was Dr. 
Hudson, the King’s Chaplain, and that the King was alone, a 
few paces from the door, and that he would immediately fetch 
him in. 

Mr. Ferrar received His Majesty with all possible respect. 
But fearing that Gidding, from the known loyalty of the family, 
might be a suspected place, for better concealment he conducted 
the King to a private house at Coppingford, an obscure village 
at a small distance from Gidding, and not far from Stilton. It 
was a very dark night, and but for the lantern Mr. Ferrar 
carried, they could not have known the way. As it was, they 
lost their way once, and wandered for some time in a ploughed 
field. Mr. Ferrar always spoke with the utmost passionate dis- 


154 


JOHN inglesant; 


[chap. xiy. 


tress of this night, as of a night the incidents of which must 
have awakened the compassion of every feeling heart, however 
biassed against the King. As a proof of the most affecting dis¬ 
tress, the King, he said, was serene and even cheerful, and said 
he was protected by the King of kings. His Majesty slept at 
Coppingford, but early in the May morning he was up, and parted 
from Mr. Ferrar, going towards Stamford. Mr. Ferrar returned 
to his house, and two days after it was known that the King 
had given himself up to the Scottish army. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

Inglesant remained in prison, and would have thought that he 
had been forgotten, but that every few weeks he was sent for 
by the Committee and examined. The Committee got no new 
facts from him, and indeed probably did not expect to get any; 
but it was very useful to the Parliament party to keep him 
before the public gaze as a Royalist and a Jesuit. It was a 
common imputation upon the Cavaliers that they were Papists, 
and anything that strengthened this belief made the King’s 
party odious to the nation. Here was a servant of the King’s, 
an avowed Jesuit, and one self-condemned in the most terrible 
crimes. It *is true he was disowned by the royal party, appa¬ 
rently sincerely; but the general impression conveyed by his 
case was favourable to the Parliament, and they therefore took 
care to keep it before the world. . These examinations were 
looked forward to by Inglesant with great pleasure, the row up 
the river and the sight of fresh faces being such a delight to 
him. He was not confined to his room, being allowed to walk 
at certain hoius in the coiut of the Tower, and he found a box 
containing a few books, a Lucretius and a few other Latin books, 
probably left by some former occupant of the cell. These were 
not taken from him, and he read and re-read them, especially the 
Lucretius, many times. They saved him from utter prostration 
and despair,—they and a secret help which he acknowledged 
afterwards,—a help, which to men of his natiue certainly does 
come upon prayer to God, to whatever source it may be ascribed; 
a help which in terrible sleepless hours, in hours of dread 
weariness of life, in hours of nervous pain more terrible than all, 


CHAP. XIV. 3 


A ROMANCK 


155 


calms the heart and soothes the brain, and leaves peace and 
cheerfulness and content in the place of restlessness and despair. 
Inglesant said that repeating the name of Jesus simply in the 
lonely nights kept his brain quiet when it was on the point of 
distraction, being of the same mind as Sir Charles Lucas, when, 
“ many times calling upon the sacred name of Jesus,” he was 
shot dead at Colchester. 

More than a year passed over him. From the scraps of 
news he could gather from his jailer, and from the soldiers in 
the court during his walks, he leanit that the King had been 
given up by the Scots, had escaped from Hampton Court, had 
been retaken and sent to Carisbrook, and was soon to come to 
London, the man said, for his trial. 

It was soon after he had learnt this last news that his jailei 
suddenly informed him that he was to be tried for his life. 

Accordingly, soon after, a warrant arrived from Bradshaw, 
the President of the Council of State, to bring him before that 
body. 

The Council sat in Essex House, and some gentlemen, who 
had surrendered Pembroke upon terms that they should depart 
the country in three days, but—accounting it base to desert 
their prince, and hoping that there might be farther occasion of 
service to His Majesty,—had* remained in London, were upon 
their trial. When Inglesant arrived with his guard these 
gentlemen were under ejcamination, and one of them, who had 
a wife and children, was fighting hard for his life, arguing the 
case step by step with the lawyers and the Council. Inglesant 
was left waiting in the anteroom several hours; from the con¬ 
versation he overheard, the room being constantly full of all 
sorts of men coming and going—soldiers, lawyers, divines—he 
learnt that the King’s trial was coming on very soon, and he 
fancied that his name was mentioned, as though the nearness of 
the King’s trial had something to do with his o^tn being hurried 
on. It was a cold day, and there was a large fire in the ante¬ 
room. Inglesant had had fiothing to eat since morning, and 
felt weak and faint. He wished the other examinations over 
that his own might come on; his, he thought, would not take 
long. At last the gentlemen were referred to the Council of 
War, to be dealt with as spies, and came out of the Council 
chamber with their guards. The one was a plain country 
gentleman, and neither of them knew Inglesant, but, stopping a 


156 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap. XIV. 


moment in the anteroom, while the guard prepared themselves, 
one of them asked his name, saying he was afraid they had 
kept him waiting a long time. This was Colonel Eustace 
Powell, and Inglesant met him again when he thought he had 
only a few minutes to live. 

The Council debated whether they should hear Inglesant 
that day, as it was now late in the afternoon, and the candles 
were lighted, but finally he was sent for into the Council. 

As soon as he came to the bar, Bradshaw asked him 
suddenly when he saw the King last, to which he replied that 
he had not seen the King since Kaseby field. 

“You were at Kaseby, then said Bradshaw 

“ Yes,” said Inglesant. 

“And you ran away, I suppose ?” 

“Yes,” said Johnny, “I ran away.” 

“ Then you are a coward as well as a traitor,” said Brad¬ 
shaw. 

“ I am not braver than other men,” said Inglesant. 

Inglesant was then examined more in form, but very 
shortly; everything he said having been said so often before. 

The President then told him that, by his own confession, 
he was guilty of death, and should be hanged at once if he 
persisted in it, but that the Council did not believe his confes¬ 
sion—indeed, had evidence and confessions from others to prove 
the reverse; and therefore, if he persisted in his course, he was 
his own murderer, and could hope for no mercy from God. 
That if he would sign the declaration which tliey offered him, 
which they knew to be true, and which stated that he had only 
acted under the King’s orders, he should not only have his life 
spared, but should very shortly be set at liberty. 

To this he replied that if they had evidence to prove what 
they said, they did not w^ant bis; that he could not put his 
name to evidence so contrary to what he had always confessed, 
and was prepared to stand by to death; that, as to his fate 
before God, he left his soul in His hands, who was more merci¬ 
ful than man. 

To this Bradshaw replied that they w^ere most merciful to 
him, and desired to save him from himself; that, if he died, he 
died wdth a lie upon his lips, from his own obstinacy and 
suicide. 

Making no answer to this, he was ordered back to the 


CHAP. XIV ] 


A ROMANCE. 


157 


Tower, and warned to prepare himself for death. He saw 
clearly that their object was to bring out evidence signed by 
him on the eve of the King’s trial, which no doubt would have 
been a great help to their cause. As he went back in his barge 
to the Tower, he wondered why they did not publish something 
with his name attached, without troubling themselves about his 
consent. As they went down the river, the darkness became 
denser, and the boat passed close to many other wherries, 
nearly running them down; the lights on the boats and the 
barges glimmered indistinctly, and made the course more 
difficult and uncertain. They shot the bridge under the mass 
of dark houses and irregular lights, and proceeded across the 
pool towards the Tower stairs. The pool w^as somewhat clear 
of ships, and the lanterns upon the wharves and such vessels as 
were at anchor made a clearer light than that above tlie bridge. 
As they crossed the pool, a wherry, rowed by a single man, 
came towards them obliquely from the Surrey side, so ;is to 
approach near enough to discern their persons, and then, 
crossing their bows, suffered itself to be run down before the 
barge could be stopped. The waterman climbed in at the bows, 
as his own wherry filled and w^ent down. He seemed a stupid, 
surly man, and might be supposed to be either deaf or drunk. 
To the abuse of the soldiers and watermen he made no answer 
but that he was an up-river waterman, and was confused by the 
lights and the current of the bridge. The officer called him 
forward into the stern, and as he came towards them Inglesant 
knew him in spite of his perfect disguise. It w^as the Jesuit. 
He answered as many of the officer’s questions as he appeared 
to understand, and took no manner of notice of Inglesant, wdio 
of course appeared entirely indifferent and uninterested. When 
they landed at the stairs, the w-aterman, with a perfectly pro¬ 
fessional manner, swung himself over the side into the water, 
and steadied the boat for the gentlemen to land, which act the 
officer took as an awkw^ard expression of respect and gratitude. 
As Inglesant passed him he put liis hand up for his to rest on, 
and Johnny I'elt a folded note passed into it. Without the 
least pause, he followed the officer across the Tower wharf, and 
was conducted to his room. As soon as he was alone he 
examined the paper, which contained these w'ords only:— 

“ You are not forgotten. Keep on a little longer. The end 
is very near.” 


158 


JOHN inglesant; 


[chap. XIV. 


It made little impression upon him, nor did it influence his 
after conduct, which had already been sufiiciently determined 
upon. He expected very little help from any one, though he 
believed that Father St. Clare would do what he could. The 
Jesuit would have died himself at any moment had his purpose 
required it, and he could not think that he would regard as of 
much importance the fall of another soldier in the same rank. 
He was mistaken, but he did not know it; the Jesuit, beneath 
his placid exterior, retained for his favourite and cleverest pupil 
an almost passionate regard, and would have done for him far 
more than he would have thought worth the doing for himself. 
Meanwhile, Inglesant translated his words into a different 
language, and thought more than once that doubtless they were 
very true, and that, though in a sense not intended, the end was 
very near. 

This took place at the beginning of December, and about a 
week afterwards the jailer advised Inglesant to prepare for 
death, for the warrant to behead him was signed, and would 
be put into execution that day week at Charing Cross. He 
immediately Sent a petition to the Council of State, that a 
Priest, either of the Roman Catholic or the English Church, he 
was indifferent which, might be sent him. To this an answer 
was sent immediately that he was dying witli a lie upon his lips, 
and that the presence of no priest or minister could be of any 
use to him, and would not be granted. The same day a Presby¬ 
terian minister was admitted to him, who used the same argu¬ 
ments for some time without effect, representing the fearful 
condition that Inglesant was in as an unrepentant sinner. 
Inglesant began to regret that lie had made any application, and 
this regret was increased two days afterwards when a man, who 
offered him certain proofs that he was a Roman Catholic Priest, 
was admitted, and gave him the same advice, refusing him 
Absolution and the Sacrament unless he complied. Upon this 
Inglesant became desperate, and refused to speak again. The 
Priest waited some time and then left, telling him he was 
eternally lost. 

This was the severest trial he had yet met with; but his 
knowledge of the different parties in the Romish Church, and 
the extent to which they subordinated their religion to their 
political intrigues, was too great to allow him to feel it so much 
as he otherwise would. He resigned himself to die unassisted. 


CHAP. XIV.] 


A ROMANCK 


159 


He applied for an English Prayer Book, but this also was 
refused. He remembered the old monastic missals he had 
possessed at Westacre, and thought over all those days with the 
tenderest regret. 

The fatal morning arrived at last. Inglesant had passed a 
sleepless night; he had not the slightest fear of death, but 
excitement made sleep impossible. He thought often of his 
brother, but he had learned that he was in Paris alone; and 
even had he been in England, he felt no especial desire to see 
him imder circumstances which could only have been intensely 
painful. Mary Collet he thought of night and day, but he knew 
it was impossible to obtain permission to see her, and he was 
tired of fruitless requests. He was tired and wearied of life, 
and only wished the excitement and strain over, that he might 
be at rest. It struck him that the greatest liarshness was used 
towards him; his food was very poor and of the smallest 
quantity, and no one was admitted to him; but he did not 
wonder at this, knowing that his case differed from any other 
Loyalist prisoner. 

At about eight o’clock on the appointed morning, the same 
officer who had conducted him before entered his room with the 
lieutenant of the Tower, bringing the warrant for his death. 
The lieutenant parted from him in a careless and indifferent 
way. They went by water and landed by York Stairs, and 
proceeded by back ways to a house nearly adjoining Northum¬ 
berland House, facing the wide street about Charing Cross. 
From one of the first floor windows a staircase had been con¬ 
trived, leading up to a high scaffold or platform on which the 
block was fixed. Inglesant had not known till that morning 
whether he was to be hanged or beheaded; like every other 
thought, save one, it was indifferent to him—that one, how he 
should keep his secret to the last. In the room of this house 
opening on the scaffold, he found Colonel Eustace Powell, whom 
he had met at Essex House, who was to precede him to death. 
He gi’eeted Inglesant with great kindness, but, as Johnny 
thought, with some reserve. He was a very pious man, strongly 
attached to the Protestant party in the Church of England, and 
he had passed the last three days entirely in the company of 

Dr, s-j who was then in the room with him, engaged in 

religious exercises, and his piety and resignation had attached 
the Doctor to him very much. The Doctor now proceeded to 



160 JOHN inglesant; [chap. xiv. 

ask the Colonel, before Inglesant and the others, a series of 
questions, in order that he should give some account of his 
religion, and of his faith, charity, and repentance, to all of which 
he answered fully; that he acknowledged his death to be a just 
punishment of God for his former sins ; that he acknowledged 
that his just due was eternal punishment, from which he only 
expected to escape through the satisfaction made by Christ, by 
which Mediator, and none other, he hoped to be saved. The 
Doctor then asking him if, by a miracle (not to put him in vain 
hope), God should save him that day, what life he would resolve 
to lead hereafter 1 he replied, “It is a question of great length, 
and requires a great time to answer. Men in such straits would 
promise great things, but a vow I would make, and by God’s 
help endeavour to keep it, though I would first call some friend 
to limit how far I should make a vow, that I might not make a 
rash one, and offer the sacrifice of fools.” 

In answer to other questions he said,—“ He wished well to 
all lawful governments; that he did not justify himself in having 
ventured against the existing one; he left God to judge it 
whether it be righteous, and if it be, it must stand. He desired 
to make reparation to any he had injured, and he forgave his 
enemies.” 

The Doctor then addressed him at length, saying,—- 

“ Sir, I shall trouble you very little farther. I thank you 
for all those heavenly colloquies I have enjoyed by being in your 
company these three days, and truly I am sorry I must part 
with so heavenly an associate. We have known one another 
heretofore, but never so Christianiike before. I have rather 
been a scholar to learn from you than an instructor. I wish 
this stage, wherein you are made a spectacle to God, angels, 
and the world, may be a school to all about you; for though I 
will not diminish your sins, yet I think there are few here have 
a lighter load upon them than you have, and I only wish them 
yoiu repentance, and that measure of faith that God hath given 
you, and that measure of courage you have attained from 
God.” 

The Colonel, having wished all who were present in the 
room farewell, went up on the scaffold accompanied by the 
Divine. The scaffold was so near that Inglesant and the officers 
and the guards, who stood at the window screened from the 
sight of tlie people, could hear every word that passed. They 


CHAP. XIV.] A ROMANCE. 161 

understood that the whole open place was densely crowded, but 
they could scarcely believe it, the silence was so profound. 

Colonel Powell made a speech of some length, clearing 
himself of Popery in earnest language, not blaming his judges, 
but throwing the guilt on false witnesses, whom, how^ever, he 
forgave. He bore no malice to the present Government, nor 
pretended to decide controversies, and spoke touchingly of the 
sadness and gloom of violent death, and how mercifully he w^as 
dealt with in being able to face it with a quiet mind. He 
finally thanked the authorities for their courtesy in granting 
him the death of the axe—a death somewiiat worthy of his 
blood, answerable to his birth and qualification—w hich courtesy 
had much helped towards the pacification of his mind. 

Inglesant supposed the end was now come, but to his 
surprise the Doctor again stepped forward, and before all the 
people repeated the w^hole former questions, to each of which 
the Colonel replied in nearly the same wmrds. 

Then stepping forward again to the front of the scaffold, 
the Colonel said, speaking to the people in a calm and tender 
voice,— 

“ There is not one face that looks upon me, though many 
faces, and perhaps different from me in opinion and practice, but 
methinks hath something of pity in it; and may that mercy 
which is in your hearts now be meted to you when you have 
need of it! I beseech you join with me in prayer.” 

The completest silence prevailed, broken only by a faint 
sobbing and whispering sound from the excited and pitying 
crowd. Colonel Powell prayed for a quarter of an horn* wuth 
an audible voice; then taking leave again of his friends and 
directing the executioner when to strike, he knelt down to the 
block, and repeating the words, “ Lord Jesus, receive me,” his 
head w^as smitten off with a blow. 

A long deep groan, followed by an intense silence, ran 
through the crowd. The officer wffio accompanied Inglesant 
looked at him with a peculiar expression; and, bowing in return, 
Inglesant passed through the window, and as he mounted the 
steps and his eyes* came to the level of, and then rose higher 
than the interposing scaffold, he saw the dense crowd of heads 
stretching far away on every hand, the house window^s and roofs 
crowded on every side. He scarcely saw it before he almost 
lost the sight again. A wild motion that shook the crowd, a 

M 


162 


JOHN inglesant; 


[chap, XIV. 


roar that filled the air and etuimed the sense, a yell of indigna¬ 
tion, contempt, hatred, hands shook and clutched at him, wild 
faces leaping up and staring at him, cries of “ Throw him over !” 
“Give over the Jesuit to us!” “Throw over the Irish mur¬ 
derer !” made his senses reel for a moment, and his heart stop. 
It was inconceivable that a crowd, the instant before placid, 
pitiful, silent, shoidd in a moment become like that, deafening, 
mad, thirsting for blood. The amazing surprise and reaction 
produced the greatest shock. Hardening himself in a moment, 
lie faced the people, his hat in his hand, his pale face hard set, 
liis teeth closed. Once or twice he tried to speak; it would 
have been as easy to drown the Atlantic’s roar. As he stood, 
apparently calm, this terrible ordeal had the worst possible 
effect upon his mind. Other men came to the scaffold calm in 
mind, prepared by holy thoughts, and the sacred, tender services 
of the Church of their Lord, feeling His hand indeed in theirs. 
They spoke, amid silence and solemn prayers, to a pitying 
people, the name of Jesus on their lips, the old iamiliar words 
whispered in their ears, good wishes, deference, respect all 
around, their path seemed smooth and upward to the heavenly 
gates. But with him—how different I Denied the aid of 
prayer and sacrament, alone, overwhelmed with contempt and 
hatred, deafened with the fiendish noise which racked his excited 
and overwrought brain. He was indifferent before; he became 
hardened, fierce, contemptuous now. Hated, he hated again. 
All the worst spirit of his party and of his age became upper¬ 
most. He felt as though engaged in a mad duel with a 
despised yet too powerful foe. He turned at last to the officer, 
and said, his voice scarcely heard amid the unceasing roar,— 

“You see, sir, I cannot speak; do not let us delay any 
longer.” 

The officer hesitated, and glanced at another gentleman, 
evidently a Parliament man, who advanced to Inglesant, and 
offered him a paper, the purport of which he knew by this time 
too well. 

He told him in his ear that even now he should be set at 
liberty if he would sign the true evidence, .and not rush upon 
his fate and lose his soul. He repeated that the Parliament 
knew he was not guilty, and had no wish to put him to death. 

Inglesant saw the natural rejoinder, but did not think it 
worth his while to make it. Only get this thing over, and 


A ROMANCE. 


CHAP. XIV.] 


163 


escape from maddening crj^ tearing his brain with its 
terrible roar, to something quieter at any rate. 

He rejected the paper, and turning to the officer he said, 
with a motion towards the people of inexpressible disdain,— 

“ These good people are impatient for the final act, sir; do 
not let us keep them any longer.” 

The officer still hesitated, and looked at the Parliament 
man, who shook his head, and immediately left the scafibld. 
The officer then leaned on the rail, and spoke to his lieutenant 
in the open space round the scaffold within the barriers. The 
latter gave a word of command, and the soldiers fell out of their 
rank so as to mingle with the crowd. As soon as the officer 
saw this manoeuvre completed, he took Inglesant’s arm, and 
said hurriedly,—“ Come vith me to the house, and be qiuck.” 
Not knowing what he did, Inglesaiit followed him hastily into 
the room. They had need to be quick. A yell, to which the 
noise preceding it was as nothing—terrible as it had been, a 
shower of stones, smashing every pane of glass, and falling in 
heaps at their feet,—show^ed the fury of a maddened, injured 
people, robbed of their expected prey. 

The officer looked at Inglesant, and laughed. 

“I thought there would be a tumult,” he said ; “we are 
not safe here; the troops will not oppose them, and they will 
break down the doors. Come with me.” 

He led Inglesant, still almost unconscious, through the back 
entries and yards, the roar of the people still in their ears, till 
they reached a stair leading to the river, where was a whecry 
and tym or three guards. The officer stepped in after Inglesant, 
crying, “Pull away! The Tower!” then, leaning back, and 
looking at Inglesant, he said,— 

“You stood that very well. I would rather momit the 
deadliest breach than face such a sight as that.” 

Inglesant asked him if he knew what this extraordinary 
change of intention meant. 

To which he replied,— 

“No; I acted to orders. Probably you are of more use to 
the Parliament alive than dead; besides, I fancy you have 
friends. I should think you are safe now.” 

That afternoon, a report spread through London that Ingle¬ 
sant, the King’s servant, had confessed all that was required of 
him upon the scafibld, and had his life given hnu in return. 


164 


JOHN INGLESaNT ; 


[chap. XIV, 


This report was believed mostly by the lower orders, especially 
those who had been before the scaffold; but few of the upper 
classes credited it, and even these only did so for a day or two. 
The Parliament made no further effort; and Inglesant was left 
quietly in prison. 

This happened on the 19th of December, and on the 20th 
of January the King’s trial began. That could scarcely be 
called a trial which consisted entirely in a struggle between the 
King and the Court on a point of law. In the charge of high 
treason, read in Westminster Hall against the King, special 
mention was made of the commission which he “doth still 
continue to the Earl of Ormond, and to the Irish rebels and 
revolters associated with him, from whom further invasions 
upon the land are threatened.” There appear to have been no 
witnesses examined on this point, all that were examined during 
three days, in the painted chamber, simply witnessing to having- 
seen the King in arms. Indeed, all witnesses were unnecessary, 
the sentence having been already determined upon, and the 
King utterly refusing to plead or to acknowdedge the Court. 
The King, indeed, never appeared to such advantage as on his 
trial; he was perfectly unmoved by any personal thought; no 
fear, hesitation, or -wavering appeared in his behaviour. He 
took his stand simply on the indisputable point of law that 
neither that Court, nor indeed any Court had any authority to 
try him. To Bradshaw’s assertion that he derived his authority 
from the people, he in vain requested a single precedent that 
the Monarchy of England was elective, or had been elective, 
for a thousand years. In his abandonment of self, and his 
unshaken constancy to a point of principle, he contrasted most 
favourably with his judges, whose sole motive was self. That 
none of the Parliamentary leaders were safe while the King 
lived is probable ; but sound statesmanship does not acknow¬ 
ledge self-preservation as an excuse for mistaken policy, and the 
murder of the King -vv-as not more a crime than it w-as a blunder. 
Having been condemned by this unique Court, he -vv^as, with 
the most indecent haste, hurried to his end. A revolting- 
coarseness marks every detail of the tragic story; the flower 
of England on either side was beneath the turf or beyond the 
sea, and the management of affairs w^as left in the hands of 
butchers and brewers. Ranting sermons, three in succession, 
before a brewer in Whitehall, are the medium to which the 


CHAP. XIV.] 


A ROMANCE. 


165 


religious utterance of England is reduced, and Ireton and 
Harrison in bed together, with Cromwell and others in the 
room, signed the warrant for the fatal act. The horror and 
indignation which it impressed on the heart of the people may 
be understood a little by the fact, that in no country so much 
as in England the peculiar sacredness of Monarchy has since 
been carried so far. The impression caused by his death w'as 
so profound, that, forty years afterwards, when his son was 
arrested in his flight, the only thing that during the whole 
course of that revolution caused the least reaction in his favour 
was (according to the Whig Burnet) the fear that the people 
conceived that the same thing was going to be acted over again, 
and men remembered that saying of King Charles—“The 
prisons of princes are not far from their graves.” He walked 
across the Park from the garden at St. James’s that January 
morning with so firm and quick a pace that the guards could 
scarcely keep the step, and stepping from his own banqueting- 
. house upon the scaffold, where the men who ruled England 
so little understood him as to provide ropes and pulleys to drag 
him down in case of need, he died with that calm and kingly 
bearing which none could assume so well as he, and by his 
death he cast a halo of religious sentiment round a cause which, 
w ithout the final act, w'ould have wanted much of its pathetic 
charm, and struck that key-note of religious devotion to his 
person and the Monarchy which has not yet ceased to rever¬ 
berate ill the hearts of men. 

“ That thence the royal actor borne 
Tlie tragic scaffold might adorn, 

While round the armed bands 
Did clap their bloody hands : 

He nothing common did, nor mean, 

Upon that memorable scene ; 

But with his keener eye 
The axe’s edge did try ; 

Nor called the gods with vulgar spite 
To vindicate his helpless right, 

Rut bowed his comely head . 

Down, as upon a bed.” 

Tlic Jicpublican, Andrew Marvell. 


166 


JOHN inglesant; 


[chap. XV. 


CHAPTER XV. 

Inglesant remained in the Tower for several months after the 
King’s death. The Lords Hamilton, Holland, and Capel were 
the first who followed their royal master to the block, and many 
other names of equal honour and little inferior rank followed in 
the same list. In excuse for the murders of these men there is 
•no other plea than, as in the case of their master—self-preserva¬ 
tion. But the purpose was not less abortive than the means 
were criminal. The effect produced on the country was one of 
awe and hatred to the ruling powers. Thousands of copies of 
the King’s Book, edged with black, were sold in London within 
the few days following his death, and Milton was obliged to 
remonstrate pitifully with the people for their unaccountable 
attachment to their King. The country, it is true, was for the 
moment cowed, and, although individual gentlemen took every, 
opportunity to rise against the usurpers, and suffered death 
willingly in such a cause, the mass of the people remained 
quiet. The country gentlemen indeed were, as a body, ruined; 
the head of nearly every family was slain, and the widows and 
minors had enough to do to arrange, as best they might, with 
the Government agents who assessed the fines and compositions 
upon malignants’ estates. It required a few years to elapse 
before England would recover itself, and declare its real mind 
unmistakably, which it very soon did; but during those years 
it never sank into silent acquiescence to the great wrong tlurt 
had been perjoetrated. It is the custom to regard the Common¬ 
wealth as a period of great national prosperity and peace. 
Nothing can be a greater mistake. There never was a moment’s 
peace during the whole of Cromwell’s reign of power. He began 
by destroying that Parliament utterly, for seeking the arrest of 
five members of which the King lost his crown and was put to 
death. The best of the Republican party were kept in prison 
or exiled, just as the King had been seized and executed by 
Cromwell, independently of the Parliament. But the oppressed 
sections of the Puritan party never ceased to hate the usurper 
as much as the Royalists did, and the want of their support 
insured the fall of the Republic the moment the master hand 
was withdrawn. 


A ROMANCE. 


167 


CHAP. XV.] 

After a few monlhs Inglesant’s imprisonment was much 
lighter; he was allowed abundance of food, and liberty to Avalk 
in the courtyards of the Tower, and was allowed to purchase 
any books he chose. He had received a sum of money from an 
unknown hand, which he afterwards found to have been that of 
Lady Cardiff, his brother’s wife, and this enabled him to pur¬ 
chase several books and other conveniences. He remained in 
prison under these altered circumstances until the end of January 
1650, when, one morning, his door opened, and without any 
announcement his brother was admitted to see him. Eustace 
was much altered : he was richly dressed, entirely in the French 
mode, his manner and appearance were altogether those of a 
favourite of the French Court, and he spoke English with a 
foreign accent. He greeted his brother with great warmth, and 
it need not be said that Johimy was delighted to see him. 

Eustace told his brother at once that he was free, and 
showed him the warrant for his liberation. 

“I was in Paris,” he said, “on the eve of starting for 
England on affaks whicb I will explain to you in a moment, 
when ‘ votre ami ’ the Jesuit came to see me. He told me he 
understood I was going to England on my private affairs, but 
he thought possible I might not object to do a little service for 
my brother;—yOu know his manner. He said if I would apply 
in certain quarters, which he named to me, I should find the 
way prepared, and no ditijculties in obtaining your release. The 
words were true, and yesterday I received this warrant. As 
soon it is convenient to you I slrnll be glad for you to leave 
this sombre place, as I want you to come with me to Oulton, 
to my wife,—my wife, who is indeed so x>erfectly English in all 
her manners, as I shall proceed to explain to you. Since you 
were at Oulton my wife has been growing Worse and worse in 
health, and more and more eccentric and crotchety; every new 
remedy and every fresh religious notion she adopts at once. She 
has filled the house with (piacks, of whom Van Helmont is chief, 
mountebanks, astrologers, and physicians,—a fine collection of 
beaux-esprits. The last time I was there I could not see her 
once, though I stayed a fortnight; she was in great misery, 
extremely ill, and said she was near her last. Since I have 
been in Paris I have been obliged to give up many of my suppers 
with the French King and Lords, from her letters saying slie 
was at the point of deatli. She is ill at present, and no one has 


168 


JOHN inglesant; 


[chap. XV. 


seen her these ten days ; but I suppose it is much after the same 
sort; and she sends me word that Van Helmont has promised 
that she shall not be brn'ied, but preserved by his art till I can 
come and see her. To crown all, she has lately become a Quaker, 
and in my family all the women about my wife, and most of the 
rest, are Quakers, and Mons. Van Helmont is governor of that 
flock,—an unpleasing sort of people, silent, sullen, and of reserved 
conversation, though I hear one of the maids is the prettiest girl 
in all the county. These and all that society have free access 
to my wife, but I believe Dr. More, the Platonist, who is a 
scholar and gentleman, if an enthusiast, though he was in the 
house all last summer, did not see her above once or tNvice. She 
has been urging me for months to search all over Europe for an 
eagle’s stone, which she says is of great use in such diseases as 
hers; and when I, at great labour and expense, found her one, 
she sends back word that it is not one, but that some of her 
quacks were able to decipher it at once, and that it is a German 
stone, such as are commonly sold in London at five shillings 
apiece. I have grown learned in these stones, by which the 
fairies in our grandfather’s time used to preserve the fruits from 
hail and storms. There is a salamander stone This eagle 
stone is one made after a cabalistic art and under certain stars, 
and engraved with the sign of an eagle. I could prove their 
virtue to you,” he continued, laughing, “throughout all arts and 
sciences, as Divinity, Philosophy, Physic, Astrology, Physiog¬ 
nomy, Divination of Dreams, Painting, Sculptime, Music, and 
what not. This affair of the stone, and these reports of sickness 
and death, however, and doleful stories of coffins prepared by 
art, and of open graves, would not have brought me over, but 
for another circumstance of much greater moment. When I 
was in Italy and staying some time at Venice, and was desirous 
of engaging in some of the intrigues and amusements of the city, 
I was recommended to an Italian, a young man, who made him¬ 
self useful to several of the nobility, as a man who could intro¬ 
duce me to, and show me more of that kind of pleasure, than 
any one else. I found him all that had been represented to me, 
and a great deal more, for, not to tell you too long a story, he 
was an adept at every sort of intrigue, and was acquainted at 
any rate with every species of villany and vice that the Italians 
have conceived. The extent to which they carry these tastes 
of theirs cannot be des(Tibed, and from them the wildest of the 


CHAP. XV.] 


A ROMANCE. 


169 


gallants of the rest of Europe start back amazed. To cut this 
short, I was very deeply engaged to him, and in return I held 
some secrets of his, which he would not even now have known. 
At last, upon some villainous proposal made by him, I drew upon 
him. We had been dining at one of the Casinos in St. IMark’s 
Place, and I would have run him through the body, but the 
crowd of mountebanks, charlatans, and such stuff, interposed and 
saved him. I have often wished since I had. He threatened 
me highly, but as I was a foreigner and acquainted with most of 
the principal nobles, he could do me no harm. He endeavoured 
to have me assassinated more than once, and one Englishman 
was set upon and desperately wounded in mistake for me; but 
by advice I hired bravoes myself who baffled his plots, for I had 
the longest purse. I knew nothing of him afterwards until I 
heard that he had left Italy, a ruined and desperate man, whose 
life was sought by many; and the next thing I heard, not many 
weeks ago, was that he was at Oulton, having gained admission 
to my wife as a foreign physician who had some especial know¬ 
ledge of her disease. She fancies herself much the better for 
his nostrums, and gives herself entirely to his directions, and I 
believe he professes Quakerism, or some sort of foreign mysticism 
allied to it, which has established him with the rest of her con¬ 
fidants. I no sooner heard this pleasing information than I 
resolved to come over to England at once, and at least drive 
away this villain from my family, even if I had no other way 
to do it than by running him through the body, as I might have 
done in Italy. I, however, sent a messenger to my wife to in¬ 
form her that I was coming, and on my reaching London a few 
days ago, I found him waiting for me with a packet from Oulton. 
In a letter my wife desires me earnestly not to come to Oulton to 
sec her, as she is assured by good hands that some imminent 
danger awaits me if I do, and she encloses this horoscope, which 
no doubt one of her astrologers has prepared for her. Now I 
have no doubt the Italian is at tlie bottom of all this, and that, 
at his instigation, the horoscope has, been drawn out; yet I con¬ 
fess that it appears to me to have something about it that looks 
like the truth, something beyond what would he written at the 
instigation of an enemy. You can read it and judge for yourself. 
I have dabbled a little in astrology as in other arts.” 

John Inglesant took the paper from his brother and examined 
it carefully. At the top was an astrological scheme, or drawing 


170 


JOHN INGLESANT ; 


[chap. XV. 


of the heavens, taken at some moment when the intention of 
Enstace to come to 0niton had first become known to his wife. 
Beneath was the judgment of the adept, in the following 
words:— 

“ Saturn, the significator of the quesited, being in conjunction 
with Venus, I judge him to have gained by ladies to a consider¬ 
able extent, to be much attached to them, greatly addicted to 
pleasure, and very fortunate where females are concerned, and 
to be a man of property. The significator being affected both 
by Mercury, lord of the eighth in the figure, and also by Mars, the 
lord of the quesited’s eighth house, and the aspect of separation 
of the moon being bad,—namely, conjunction of Jupiter and 
square of Mercury, who is ill aspected to Jupiter, and is going 
to a square of the sun on the cusp of the mid-heaven,—I judge 
that the quesited is in imminent danger of death ; and the lord 
of the third house being in the eighth, and the significator being 
combust, in conjunction with the lord of the eighth, and the 
hyleg afflicted by the evil planets, makes it more certain. His 
significator being in the eleventh house denotes tliat at the pre¬ 
sent time he is well situated and with some near friend (I should 
judge, as he is well aspected with the moon, the lady of the 
third house, a brother), and happy. Mars being in the ascend¬ 
ant, and the cusp of the first house wanting only three degrees 
of the place of the evil planet in a common sign, I judge the 
time of death to occur in three weeks’ time, and that it will be 
caused by a»sword or dagger wound, by which Mai's kills. The 
danger lies to the south-west—south, because the quarter of the 
heaven where the lord of the ascendant is, is south—west, be¬ 
cause the sign where he is, is west.” 

John Inglesant read this paper two or three times, and re¬ 
turned it to his brotlier with a smile. “ I should not be greatly 
alarmed at it,” said he : “ that is not a true horoscope, or rather 
it is a true horosco}>e tampered with. The man who erected the 
scheme, I should say, was an honest man, though not a very clever 
astrologer. It has, however, as most schemes have, a glimmer¬ 
ing of a truth not otherwise known (you and I being together, 
which no one at Oulton could have tliought of, though you see 
he was wrong as to the time); but some other hand has been at 
work upon the judgment, and a very imskilfid one. It contra¬ 
dicts itself. What is most important, however, is that the artist 
has no ground to take Satuin for your significator, which should 


CHAP. XV.] 


A ROMANCE. 


171 


be either the lord of the third house, the cusp of the third, or 
the planets therein, neither of which Saturn is. Besides, he 
takes the place of Fortune to be hyleg, for which he has no 
ground. He has taken Saturn as significator, as suiting what 
he knows of jwir character, and I think there is no doubt the 
Italian’s hand is in this. Now I sliould rather say that Venus, 
the lady of the third, being significator, and applying to a 
friendly trine of Jupiter, lord of the ascendant, and Saturn being 
retrograde, and Venus also casting a sextile to the cusp of the 
ascendant is a very good argument that the querent should see 
the quesited speedily, and that in perfect health. I would have 
you think no more of this rubbish, with which a wicked man 
has tried to make the heavens themselves speak falsely.” 

“ I did not know you were so good an astrologer, Johnny,” 
said his brother. 

“ Father St. Clare taught it me among other things,” said 
Inglesant; “ and I have seen many strange answers that he has 
known himself; but it is shameful that the science should be 
fiiade a tool of by designing men.” 

Eustace returned the papers to his pockets, and requested 
his brother again to prepare to leave the Tower at once. After 
taking leave of the Lieutenant, and feeing the warders, the two 
brothers departed in a coach in which Eustace had come to the 
Tower, and went to the lodgings of the latter in Holborn. 
Eustace furnished his brother with clothes until he could pro¬ 
cure some for himself, and gave him money liberally, of which 
he seemed to have no stint. He wished his brother to come 
with him to all the places of resort in the city, but Johnny 
prudently declined. Indeed, the city was so quiet and dull, 
that few places of amusement remained. The theatres were 
entirely closed. Whitehall was sombre and nearly empty, and 
the public walks were filled only with the townspeople in staid 
and sober attire. The two brothers were therefore reduced to 
each other’s society, and it seemed as though absence or a sense 
of danger united them with a warmth of affection which they 
had seldom before known. 

To John Inglesant, who had always been devotedly attached 
to his brother, this display of affection w'as delightful, cut off 
as he had been so long from all sympathy-and friendliness. 
Dressed in his brother’s clothes, the likeness which had once 
been so striking returned again, and as they walked the streets 


172 JOHN INGLESANT; [chap. xV. 

people turned to look at them with sui prise. The brothers felt 
in their hearts old feelings and thoughts returning, which had 
long been forgotten and had passed away; and to John Inglesant 
especially, always given to half melancholy musings and brood¬ 
ing over the past, all his happiest recollections seemed to con¬ 
centrate themselves on his brother, the last human relation that 
seemed left to him, since he had, as he thought, lost the favour 
of all his friends, relations, and acquaintances in the world. 
Possibly a sense of a great misfortune made this sentiment more 
tender and acute, for, as we shall see, there were some tilings in 
his lirother’s position, and in the horoscope he had shown him, 
wliich Inglesant did not like. At present, however, his whole 
nature, so long crushed down and lacerated, seemed to expand 
and heal itself in the light of his brother’s love and person, and 
to concentrate all its powers into one intense feeling, and to lose 
its own identity in this passion of brotherly regard. 

This feeling might also be increased by his own state of 
health, which made him cling closer to any support. His long 
imprisonment, and the sudden change from his quiet cell to all 
the bustle of the city life, affected his mind and brain painfully. 
He w'as confused and excited among a crowd of persons and 
objects to which he had been so long unaccustomed; his brain 
and system had received a shock from which he never entirely 
recovered, and, for some time at any rate, he walked as one 
who is ill a dream, rather than as a man engaged in the active 
pursuits of life. 

After two or three days Eustace told his brother one morn¬ 
ing that he was ready to go into the West, but before starting 
he said he wished Johnny to accompany him to a famous astro¬ 
loger in Lambeth Marsh, to whom already he had shown, the 
horoscope, and who had appointed a meeting that night to give 
his answer, and who had also promised to consult a crystal, as 
an additional means of obtaining information of the future. 

Accordingly, late in the afternoon, they took a wherry at 
the Temple Stairs, and were ferried over to Lambeth Marsh, a 
wide extent of level ground between Southwark and the Bishop’s 
Palace, on which only a few straggling houses had been built. 
The evening was dark and foggy, and a cold wind swept across 
the marsh, making them wrap their short cloaks closely about 
them. It was almost impossible to see more than a yard or two 
before them, and they would probably have found great difficulty 


CHAP. XV.] A ROMANCE. 173 

in finding the wizard’s house had not a boy with a lantern met 
th3m a few paces from the river, who inquired if they were 
seeking the astrologer. This was the wizard’s own hoy, whom, 
with considerable worldly prudence at any rate, he had de¬ 
spatched to find his clients and bring them to his house. The 
boy brought them into a long low room, with very little furni¬ 
ture in it, a small table at the upper end, with a large chair 
behind it, and three or four high-backed chairs placed along the 
wall. On the floor, in the middle of tlie room, was a large 
double circle, but there were no figures or signs of any kind 
about it. On the table was a long thin rod. A lamp which 
hung from the roof over the table cast a faint light about the 
room, and a brazier of lighted coals stood in the chimney. 

The astrologer soon entered the room with the horoscope 
Eustace had left with him in his hand. He was a fine-looking 
man, with a serious and lofty expression of face, dressed in a 
black gown, with the square cap of a divine, and a fur hood or 
tippet. He bowed courteously to the gentlemen, who saluted 
him with great respect. His manner was coldest to John 
Inglesant, whom he probably regarded with suspicion as an 
amateur. He, however, acknowledged that Inglesant’s criti¬ 
cisms on the horoscope were correct, but pointed out to him that 
in his own reading of it many of the aspects were very adverse. 
John Inglesant knew this, though he had chosen to conceal it 
from his brother. The astrologer then informed them that he 
had drawn out a scheme of the heavens himself at the moment 
when first consulted by Eustace, and that, in quite different 
ways, and by very different aspects, much the same result had 
been arrived at. “As, however,” he went on to say, “the 
whole question is to some extent vitiated by the suspicion of 
foul play, and it will be impossible for any of us to free our 
minds entirely from these suspicions, I do not advise any farther 
inquiry; but I propose that you should consult a consecrated 
beryl or crystal—a mode of inquiry far more high and certain 
than astrology, so much so, indeed, that I will seriously confess 
to you that I use the latter but as the countenance and blind; 
but this search in the crystal is by the help of the blessed 
spirits, and is open only to the pure from sin, and to men of 
piety, humility, and charity.” 

As he said these words he produced from the folds of his 
gown a large crystal or polished stone, set in a circle of gold. 


174 


JOHN INGLESANT ; [CIIAP. XV. 

supported by a silver stand. Eoiind tHe circle were engraved 
tlie names of angels. He placed this upon the table, and con¬ 
tinued,— 

“We must pray to God that He will vouchsafe us some 
insight into this precious stone; for it is a solemn and serious 
matter upon which we are, second only to that of communicatiou 
with the angelical creatures themselves, which, indeed, is vouch¬ 
safed to some, but only to those of the greatest piety, to which 
we may not aspire. Therefore let us kneel down and humbly 
pray to God.” 

They all knelt, and the adept, commencing with the Prayer- 
book collect for the festival of St. Michael, recited several other 
prayers, all for extreme and spotless purity of life. 

He then rose, the two others continuing on their knees, and 
struck a small bell, upon which the boy whom they had before 
seen entered the room by a concealed door in the wainscot. He 
was a pretty boy, with a fair and clean skin, and was dressed 
in a surplice similar to those worn by choristers. He took up 
a position by the crystal, and waited his master’s orders. 

“I have said,” continued the adept, “that these visions 
can be seen only by the pure, and by those who, by long and 
intense looking into the spii'itual world, have at last penetrated 
somewhat into its gloom. I have found these mostly to be 
plain and simple people, of an earnest faith,—country people, 
grave-diggers, and those emjdoyed to shroud the dead, and who 
are accustomed to think much upon objects connected with 
death. This boy is the child of the sexton of Lambeth Church, 
who is himself a godly man. Let us pray to God.” 

Upon this he knelt down again and remained for some time 
engaged in silent prayer. He then rose and directed the boy 
to look into the crystal, saying, “ One of these gentlemen desires 
news of his wife.” 

The boy looked intently into the crystal for some moments, 
and then said, speaking in a measirred and low voice,— 

“I see a great room, in which there is a bed with rich 
hangings; pendent from the ceiling is a silver lamp. A tall 
dark man, with long hair, and a dagger in his belt, is bending 
over the bed with a cup in his hand.” 

“ It is my wife’s room,” said Eustace in a whisper, “ and it 
is no doubt the Italian; he is tall and dark.” 

The bey continued to look for some time into the crystal, 


CHAP. XV.] 


A ROaiANCE. 


175 


but said nothing; then he turned to his master and said, “ I 
can see nothing ; some one more near to this gentleman must 
look; this other gentleman,” he said suddenly, and turning to 
John Inglesant, “if he looks, will be able to see.” 

The astrologer started. “Ah !” he said, “why do you say 
that, boy^’ 

“ I can tell who will see aught in the crj^tal, and who will 
not,” replied the boy ; “ this gentleman will see.” 

The astrologer seemed surprised and sceptical, but he made 
a sign to Inglesant to rise from his knees, and to take his place 
by the crystal. 

He did so, and looked steadily into it for some seconds, 
then he shook his head. 

“ I can see nothing,” he said. 

“ Nothing!” said the boy; “ can you see nothing V* 

“No. I see clouds and mist.” 

“You have been engaged,” said the boy, “in something 
that was not good—something that was not true; and it has 
dimmed the crystal sight. Look steadily, and if it is as I 
think, that your motive was not false, you will see more.” 

Inglesant looked again; and in a moment or two gave a 
start, saying,—“ The mist is breaking! I see;—I see a large 
room, with a chimney of carved stone, and a high window at 
the end; in the window and on the carved stone is the same 
coat many times repeated—three running greyhounds proper, on 
a field vert.” 

“ I know the room,” said Eustace; “ it is the inn parlour 
at Mintern, not six miles from Oidton. It was the manor of 
the Vinings before the wars, but is now an inn; that was their 
coat.” 

“ Do you see aught else V’ said the adept. 

Inglesant gave a long look; then he stepped back, and 
gazed at the astrologer, and from him to his brother, with a 
faltering and ashy look. 

“ I see a man’s figure lie before the hearth, and the hearth¬ 
stone is stained, as if with blood. Eustace, it is either you 
or I!” 

“Look again,” said the adept eagerly, “look again!” 

“I will look no more!” said Inglesant fiercely; “this is 
the work of a fiend, to hue men to madness or despair!” 

As he spoke, a blast of wind—sudden and strong—swept 


176 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap. XV. 


through the room; the lamp burnt dim; and the fire in the 
brazier went out. A deathly coldness filled the apartment, and 
the floor and the walls seemed to heave and shake. A lo id 
whisper, or mufSed ciy, seemed to fill the air; and a terrible 
awe struck at the hearts of the young men. Seizing the rod 
from the table, the adept assumed a commanding attitude, and 
waved it to and fro in the air; gradually the 'vvund ceased, the 
dread coldness abated, and the fire biu'ned again of its own accord. 
The adept gazed at Inglesant with a stern and set look. 

“You are of a strange spirit, young sir,” he said; “pure in 
heart enough to see things which many holy men have desired 
in vain to see; and yet so wild and rebellious as to anger the 
blessed spirits with your self-will and perverse thoughts. You 
will suffer fatal loss, both here and hereafter, if you learn not 
to give up your own will, and your own fancies, before the 
heavenly will and call.” 

Inglesant stared at the man in silence. His words seemed 
to him to mean far more than perhaps he himself knew. They 
seemed to come into his mind, S(d'tened with anxiety for his 
brother, and shaken by these tenible events, with the light of 
a revelation. Surely this was the true secret of his wasted life, 
however strange might be the place and action which revealed 
it to him. Whatever he might think afterwards of this night, 
it might easily stand to him as an allegory of his own spirit, set 
<lown before him in a figure. Doubtless he was perveise and 
headstrong under the pressure of the Divine Hand; doubtless 
he had followed his own notions rather than the voice of the 
inward monitor he professed to hear; henceforth, surely, he 
would give himself up more entirely to the heavenly voice. 

Eustace appeared to have seen enough of the future, and to 
be anxious to go. He left a purse of gold upon the wizard’s 
table; and hurried his brother to take his leave. 

Outside the air ^vas perfectly still; a thick motionless fog 
hung over the marsh and the river; not a breath of wind stirred. 

“ That was a strange wind that swept by as you refused to 
look,” said Eustace to his brother; “do you really think the 
spirits 'wei'e near, and were incensed 1” 

Inglesant did not reply; he was thinking of another spirit 
than that the wizard had evoked. 

They made their w^ay through the fcg to Lambeth, and took 
boat again to the Temple Stairs. 


CHAF. XVI.] 


A ROMANCE. 


177 


CHAPTER XVL 

The next morning, when the brothers awoke and spoke to each 
other of the events of the night, Eustace did not seem to have 
been much impressed by them : he ridiculed the astrologer, and 
made light of the visions in the crystal; he, however, acknow¬ 
ledged to his brother that it might be better to avoid the inn 
parloiH at Mintern, and said they might reach Oulton by 
another route. 

“ There is a road,” he said, “ after you leave Cern Abbas, 
which turns off five or six miles before you come to Mintern; 
it is not much farther, but it is not so good a road, and not 
much frequented. It will be quite good enough for us, how¬ 
ever, and will not delay us above an liour. But I own I feel 
ashamed of taking it.” 

John Inglesant, however, encouraged him to do so; and 
towards middle day they left London on the Windsor Road. 
Inglesant noticed as they started, that his brother’s favourite 
servant was absent, and asked his brother where he was. He 
replied that he had sent him forward early in the morning to 
inform his wife of their coming. 

“ I would not have let them know of your intentions,” said 
Johnny. 

Eustace shrugged his shoulders with a peculiar gesture, 
saying in French,— 

“It is not convenient for me to come into my family 
unannounced. I do not know what I might find going 
forward.” 

Johnny thought that his brother had bought his fortune 
rather dear; but he said nothing more upon the subject. 

They slept that night at Windsor, and hoped to have 
reached Andover the next day; but their servants’ horses, and 
those with the mails, were not equal to so long a distance, and 
they slept at Basingstoke, not being able to get farther. The 
weather was pleasant for the season, and to Inglesant especially 
—so long confined within stone walls—the journey was very 
agreeable. It reminded him of his ride up to London with the 
Jesuit long ago' when a boy, when everything was new and 

N 


178 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap. XVI. 


delightful to him, and the future open and promising. The 
Avay had then been enlivened and every interest doubled by the 
conversation of his friend, who had known how to extract 
interest and amusement from the most trivial incidents; but it 
was not less made pleasant noAv by the society of his brother. 
A great change seemed to be coming over Eustace. He was 
affectionate and serious. He spoke much of past years, of their 
grandfather, and of the old life at Westacre; of his early Court 
life, before Johnny came to London, and of the day when he 
came down to Westacre with his father and the Jesuit, and 
saw his brother again. He asked Johnny much about his ovm 
life, and listened attentively to all Inglesant thought proper to 
tell him of his religious inquiries. He asked about the Ferrars, 
and told Inglesant some of the things that had been said at 
Court about him and them. A sense of danger—even though 
it made little impression upon him—seemed to have called 
forth kindly feelings which had been latent before ; or perhaps 
some foreboding sense hung over him, and—by a gracious 
Providence—fitted and tuned his mind for an approaching fate. 
Inglesant felt his heart drawn towards him with an intensity 
which he had never felt before. The Avhole world seemed for 
the time to be centred in this brother; and he looked forward to 
life associated with him. 

They slept at Andover, and the next day made a shorter 
journey to Salisbury, where they slept again. The stately 
Cathedral was closed and melancholy-looking, and knowing no 
one in the town, they passed the long eveniiig alone in the inn. 
The next morning early they set out. They halted at Ceru 
Abbas about one o’clock, and dined. Eustace made some 
inquiries about the road he had mentioned to his brother, but 
seemed more and more unwilling to take it, and it required all 
Inglesant’s persuasion to keep him to his promise. The people 
at the inn seemed surprised that any one should think of taking 
it, and made out that the delay would be very great, and the 
chance of missing the way altogether not a little. At this, 
however, Eustace laughed, saying that he knew the country 
very well. Indeed his desire to show the truth of this assertion 
rather assisted his brother’s purpose, and they left Cern Abbas 
with the full intention of taking the unusual route. The country 
was thickly wooded, many parts of the ancient forest remaining, 
and here and there rather hilly. In descending one of these 


CHAP. XVI.] 


A ROMANCE. 


179 


hills John Inglesant’s horse cast a shoe, just as they reached the 
point where the two roads diverged, the right hand one of which 
they were to take. As it was impossible for them to proceed 
with the horse as it w^as, Johnny proposed sending it back with 
one of the servants to Cern Abbas, and taking the man’s horse 
instead, who could easily follow them. As they were about to 
put in practice this scheme, however, one of the men said there 
was a forge about a mile beyond, on the road before them, where 
it would be easy to get the shoe put on. Eustace immediately 
approved of this plan, and Johnny was obliged at last reluct¬ 
antly to yield. It seemed to him as though the impending fate 
came nearer and nearer at every step. The man proved him¬ 
self to be an uncertain guide as to distance, and it was fully two 
miles before they reached the forge. When they reached it they 
found that a gentleman’s coach, large and unwieldy, had broken 
some portion of its complicated machinery, and was taxing all 
the efforts of the smith and his assistants to repair it. The 
gentlemen dismounted and accosted the two ladies who had 
alighted from the coach, and whom Eustace remembered to have 
met before at Dorchester. The coach was soon mended, and 
the ladies drove off; but by this time Eustace had grown 
impatient, and, saying carelessly to his brother, “You will follow 
immediately,” he mounted and turned his horse’s head still along 
the main road, his men mounting also. 

“You are not going on that way,” said Johnny; “you said 
we should turn back to the other road.” 

“Oh, we cannot turn back now,” said his brother; “we 
have come farther than I expected. We will not stop at 
Mintern,” he added significantly. 

And so saying he rode away after the carriage, followed by 
his men. 

Inglesant looked after him anxiously, a heavy foreboding 
filling his mind. He saw his brother mount the little hill before 
.the forge, between the bare branches of the trees on either side 
of the road ; then a slight turn of the way concealed him, but, 
for a moment or two more, he could see glimpses of the figures 
as the leafless boughs permitted, then, when he could see even 
these no longer, he went back into the forge. It was some ten 
minutes before the horse was ready, and then Inglesant himself 
mounted, and rode off quickly after his brother. He had felt 
all the day, and during the one preceding it, a weariness and 


180 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap, xvl 


dulness of sense, the result, no doubt, of fatigue acting upon his 
only partially recovered health, and on a frame shattered by 
what he had gone through. As he rode on, his brain became 
more and more confused, so that for some moments together lie 
was almost unconscious, and only by an effort regained his sense 
of passing events. The woods seemed to pass by him iis in a 
dream, the thick winter air to hang about him like the heavy 
drapery of a pall, whether he was sleeping or waking he could 
scarcely tell. What added to his distress was an abiding sense 
of crisis and danger to his brother, which required him at that 
moment, above all others, to exert a strength and a prescience 
of which he felt himself becoming more and more incapable. 
He was continually making violent efforts to retain his recollec¬ 
tion of what was passing and of what it behoved him to do,— 
efforts which each time became more and more painful, and of 
the futility of which he became more and more despairingly 
conscious. Words cannot describe the torture of such a condi¬ 
tion as this. 

At last he overtook some of his brether’s seiwants with the 
led horses, w'hom he scarcely recognized, so far were his senses 
obsciued. Their master had ridden on before with two servants, 
they told him; he would have to ride hard to overtake them. 
He seemed eager, they said, to be at home. Iiiglesant could 
scarcely sit his horse, much less expect to overtake his brother— 
who was well mounted and an impetuous rider—nevertheless he 
gave his horse the spur, and the animal, also a good roadster, 
soon left the servants far behind. The confusion of mind whitjh 
he suffered increased more and more as he rode along, and the 
events of his past life came up before his eyes as clearly and 
palpably as the objects through which he was riding, so that he 
could not distinguish the real from the imaginary, the present 
from the past, which added extremely to his distress. He stood 
again amid the confusion and carnage of Naseby field; once 
more he saw the throng of heads, and heard that terrible cry 
that had welcomed him to the scaffold ; again he looked into the 
fatal crystal, and strange visions and ghostly shapes of death 
and corruption came out from it, and walked to and fro along 
the hedgerows and across the road before him, making terrible 
the familiar English fields; a tolling of the passing bell rang 
continually in his ear, and his horse’s footfalls sounded strange 
and funereal to his diseased sense. He knew nothing of the 


CHAP. xvr.J 


A ROaiANCE. 


181 


road, nor of what happened as he rode along, nor what people 
he passed; but he missed the direct turning, and reached 
Mintern at last by another lane which led him some distance 
round. The servants with the led horses were there before 
him, standing before the inn door, and other strange servants in 
his brother’s liveries and several horses stood about. 

The old manor that was now an inn stood close to the 
Church, at the opening of the village, with a little green before 
it and a wall, in the centre of which was a pair of gates flanked 
with pillars. The ii-on gates were closed, but the wall had been 
thrown down for some yards on either side, thus giving ample 
access to the house within. It was a handsome house with a 
large high window over the porch, in the upper panes of which 
luglesaiit could see coats of arms. Amid the tracery of the iron 
gates running greyhounds were interlaced. 

John Inglesant saw all this as in a dream, and he saw 
besides creatures that were not real, walking among the living 
men; haggard figures in long robes, and others beneath the 
grave shrouds, ghostly phantoms of his disordered brain. He 
made a desperate effort for the hundredth time to clear his sense 
of these terrible distracting sights, of this death of the brain 
that disabled all his faculties, and for the hundredth time in 
vain. It appeared to him—whether it was a vision or a reality, 
he did not know—that one of his brother’s servants came to his 
horse’s side, and told him something of a gentleman of his lady’s, 
a foreign physician, having met his master purposely, and that 
they were within together. Inglesant dismounted mechanically 
and entered the hotel, telling the servant to come with him. 
He had some dim feeling of dragging his brother away from a 
great danger, and a desire of gathering about him, if he could 
but distinguish them, such as would assist him and were of 
human flesh and blood. Inside the porch, and in the narrow 
hall beyond, the place swarmed with these distracting visions 
walking to and fro; the staircase at the farther end was crowded 
with them going up and down. He saw, as he thought, his 
brother, attended by a dark, handsome man, in the gown of a 
physician, come down the stairs to meet him, but when they 
came nearer they dissolved themselves and vanished into air. 

The host came to meet him, saying that his brother and the 
foreign gentleman were upstairs in the parlour; he had thought 
they were having some words a while ago, but they were quiet 


182 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap. XVII. 

now. The whole house, Inglesant thought, was deadly quiet, 
though seemingly to him so full of life. To what terrible deed 
were all these strange witnesses and assistants summoned ? He 
told the host to follow him as he had told the man before; and 
he did so, supposing he meant to order something. They went 
up the two flights of the oak stairs, and entered the room over 
the hall and porch. It was a large and narrow room, and was 
seemingly empty. Opposite them, in the high window, and on 
the great carved chimney to the right, running greyhounds 
coursed each other, as it seemed to Inglesant, round the room. 
A long table hid the hearth as they came in. With a fatal 
certainty, as if mechanically, Inglesant walked round it towards 
the Are, the others with him; there they stopped—sudden and 
still. On the white hearthstone—his hair and clothes steeped 
in blood—lay Eustace Inglesant, the Italian’s stiletto in his 
heart. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

The sight of his brother’s corpse seemed to steady Inglesant’s 
nerves, and clear his brain. He turned to the host, and said, 
“ What way can the murderer have escaped ?” 

The host shook his head; he was incapable of speech, or 
even thought. The three men stood looking at each other 
without a word. Then Inglesant knelt down by the body, and 
raised the head; there was no doubt that life was extinct— 
indeed, the body must have been nearly drained of blood; the 
fine line of steel had done its work fully, and with no loss of 
time. Inglesant rose from the ground; his sight, his recollec¬ 
tion, his senses were speedily failing him; nothing kept him 
conscious but the terrible shock acting with galvanic effect upon 
his frame. The back of the premises was searched, and mounted 
messengers were sent to the neighbouring towns and to the cross 
roads, and notice sent to the nearest Justice of the Peace. The 
country rose in great numbers, and came pouring in to Mintern 
before the early evening set in. The body was deposited on 
the long table in the parlour where. the deed was committed; 
and more than one Justice examined the room that afternoon. 
Inglesant saw that the guard was set, and proper care taken; 
and then he mounted to ride to Oulton. He was not fit to 


CHAP, XVII.] 


A ROMANCE. 


183 


ride; but to stay in tbe house all night was impossible—to lie 
down equally so. In the night air he rode to Oulton, through 
the long wild chase, by the pools of water—from which the 
flocks of birds rose startled as he passed, and by the herds of 
deer. The ride "settled his nerves, and when he reached the 
house he was still master of himself. The news had preceded 
him; Lady Cardiff was said to be in a paroxysm of grief; but, 
as no one had seen her for days except her immediate servants, 
Inglesant did not attempt to obtain an interview with her. He 
was received by Dr. More and the superior servants, and sat 
down to supper. Not a word was spoken diuing that sombre 
meal except by the Doctor, who pressed Inglesant to eat and 
drink, and offered to introduce him to Van Helmont, who was 
not iDresent. The Doctor said grace after supper; but when he 
had done, one of the female servants, a Quakeress, stood up and 
spoke some words recommending patience and a feeling after 
God, if perchance He might be found to be present, and a help 
in such a terrible need. The singularity of this proceeding 
roused Inglesant from the lethargy in which he was, and the 
words seemed to strike upon his heart with a familiar and not 
uncongenial sense. The mystical doctrine which he had studied 
was not unlike much that he would hear from Quaker lips. He 
went to his room after supper, intending to rise early next 
morning; but before daybreak he was delirious and in a high 
fever, and Van Helmont was sent for to his room, and bled him 
freely, and administered cordials and narcotic draughts. The 
skilful treatment caused him to sleep quietly for many hours ; 
and when he awoke, though prostrate with weakness, he was 
free from fever, and his brain was calm and clear. 

From inquiries which he made, it appeared that the Italian 
had been making preparations for leaving for several days, prob¬ 
ably doubting the success of his attempt to win over Eustace to 
tolerate his continued stay at Oulton. Inglesant was told that 
it was supposed that he had not intended to murder his brother; 
but that Eustace had probably threatened him, and that in the 
heat of contention the blow was struck. The Italian had de¬ 
stroyed all his papers, and everything that could give any clue 
to his conduct or history; but he had left a very bad reputation 
behind him, independently of his last murderous act; and his 
influence with Lady Cardift* was attributed to witchcraft. 

The funeral of Eustace Inglesant took place a few days 


184 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap. XVII. 


after, at the Church on the borders of the chase. Snow had 
fallen in the meanwhile ; and the train of black mourners passed 
over the waste of white that covered the park. A multitude of 
people filled the churchyard, and crowded round the outside of 
the hall. Lady Cardiff, by lavish almsgiving arid other vagaries, 
had always attracted a number of vagrant and masterless people 
to Oulton; and there were always some encampments of such 
people in the chase. She particularly favoured mountebanks 
and quacks of all kinds, and numbers of them were present at 
the funeral. Some few of the country gentry attended; but 
Eustace being almost unknown in the country, and his wife by 
no means popular, many who otherwise would have been present 
were not so. The Puritan authorities of the neighbourhood 
suspected Lady Cardiff’s establishments as a haunt of recusants. 
Dr. More was a known royalist; Eustace had been only re¬ 
strained from active exertion on the same side by his love of 
pleasure and his wife’s prudence; and the Puidtans regarded the 
Quakers with no favour. The herd of idle and vicious people, 
as the authorities considered them, who frequented Oulton, was 
an abomination in their eyes ; and understanding that a number 
of them would be at the funeral, two or three Puritan magis¬ 
trates, with armed servants and constables, assembled to keep 
order, as they said, but, as it proved, to provoke a riot. To 
make matters worse. Dr. More began to read the Prayer Book 
service, which was forbidden by law. The Justices interposed; 
the mob of mountebanks, and players, and idle people, sided with 
the Church party, which had always given them a friendly tolera¬ 
tion, and commenced an assault upon the constables and Justices^ 
servants, driving them from the grave side with a storm of snow¬ 
balls. The funeral was completed with great haste, and the 
mourning party returned to the house, whither the mob also 
resorted, and were regaled with provisions of all kinds during 
the afternoon, being with difficulty induced to disperse at night. 

Inglesant took no part in this riot, being indeed still too 
weak and ill to exert himself at all. He expected to be arrested 
and sent back to London; but the authorities did not take much 
notice of the riot, contenting tliemselves with dispersing the 
people, and seeing that most of them left the neighbourhood, 
which they were induced to do by being set in the village stocks, 
and otherwise imprisoned and intimidated. 

Lady Cardiff had sent messages to Inglesant every day, 


CHAP. XVII.] 


A ROMANCE. 


185 


expressing her interest in him, and she now sent Van Helmont 
to him with the information that a large sum of money, which 
she had assigned to his brother, would now be his. This sum, 
which amounted to several thousand pounds, she was ready to 
pay over to Inglesant whenever he might desire it. She hoped 
he would remain at Oulton till his health was more established, 
but she hinted that she thought it was for his own interest that 
neither his stay there, nor indeed in England, should be un¬ 
necessarily prolonged. Meanwhile, she recommended him to 
Dr. More and to the Quakers; the teaching which he would 
derive from both sources, she assured him, would be much to 
his benefit. Inglesant returned a courteous message expressive 
of his obligation for her extraordinary generosity, and assuring 
her that he should endeavour to benefit by whatever her inmates 
might communicate to him. He informed her that lie intended, 
as soon as his strength was sufficiently established, to go to 
Paris, where the only friend he had left was, and that any sum 
of money she was so generous as to afford him might be trans¬ 
mitted to the merchants there. He had some thoughts, he said, 
of going to Gidding, but had learnt that soon after the execution 
of the King, the house had been attacked by a mob of soldiers 
and others, and that the family, who had timely warning of 
their intention, had left the neighbourhood and were dispersed. 
He concluded by hoping that before he left he might be allowed 
to thank his benefactress in person. 

Some weeks passed over at Oulton with great tranquillity, 
and Inglesant regained his strength and calmness of mind. 
There was a large and valuable library in the house, and the 
society of Dr. More was pleasant to Inglesant, though in many 
ways they were far from congenial; indeed, there was more in 
Van Helmont’s character and tastes that suited his tone of mind. 
During these weeks, how’ever, Inglesant began to adapt himself 
to a course of religious life from which he never altogether 
departed, and which, after some doubts and many attempts on 
the part of others to divert him from it, he followed to the end 
of his life. He was no doubt strengthened at the beginning qf 
this course 'by the conversation of Dr. More, and also of the 
Quakers. These latter, whom Inglesant had been led to regard 
with aversion, he found harmless and sober people, whose blame¬ 
less lives, and the elevated mysticism of their conversation, 
commended them to him. 


186 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[OHAP. XVII. 


The transient calm of this existence was, however, broken 
by one absorbing idea—the desire of being revenged upon his 
brother’s murderer, of tracking the Italian’s path, and bringing 
him to some terrible justice. It was this that induced him to 
seek the Jesuit, whom at one time he had been inclined to shun. 
No one, he considered, would have it in liis power, from the 
innumerable agents in every country with whom he had con¬ 
nection, to assist him in his search so much as the Jesuit; and 
he believed that he had deserved as much at his master’s hand. 
But it was not natural that, at any rate at once, he should 
suppose that such a motive as this would be any hindrance to 
him in a religious life, and for a long time he was unconscious 
of any such idea. 

It will be as well here to endeavour to understand some¬ 
thing of the peculiar form which Christianity had assumed in 
Inglesant’s mind—a form which was not peculiar to himself, 
but which he possessed in common with most in that day whose 
training had been more or less similar to his own. It was 
similar in many respects to that which prevails in the present 
day in most Roman Catholic countries, and may be described as 
Christianity without the Bible. It is doubtful whether, except 
perhaps once or twice in College Chapel, he had ever read a 
chapter of the Bible himself in his life. Certainly he never 
possessed a Bible himself; of its contents, excepting those 
portions which are read in Church and those contained in the 
Prayer Book, he was profoundly ignorant. It was not included 
in the course of studies set him by the Jesuit. Of the Protest¬ 
ant doctrines of justification by faith and by the blood of Christ, 
and of the Calvinistic ones of predestination and assurance, he 
was only acquainted in a vague and general way, as he might 
have heard mention of them in idle talk, mostly in contempt 
and dislike. It is trae the Laudian School in the Church, in 
which he had been brought up, held doctrines which, in outward 
terms, might seem to bear some affinity with some*, if not all of 
these; but they were in reality very different. The Laudian 
School held, indeed, that the sacrifice of Christ’s blood had' 
removed the guilt of sin, and that by that, and that only, was 
salvation secured to men; but they held that this had been 
accomplished on the Cross, once for all, independently of any¬ 
thing that man could do or leave undone. The very slightest 
recognition, on the part of man, of this Divine sacrifice, the 


CHAP. XVII.] 


A ROMANCE. 


187 


very least submission to the Church ordinances, combined with 
freedom from outward sin, was sufficient to secure salvation to 
the baptized; and indeed the Church regarded with leniency 
and hope even the wild and reprobate. It is true that the 
Laudian press teemed with holy wmrks, setting the highest of 
pure standards before its readers, and exhorting to the following 
of a holy life ; but this life w'as looked upon rather as a spiritual 
luxury and privilege, to which high and refined natures might 
well endeavour to attain, rather than as absolutely necessary to 
salvation. With this view the Church regarded human error 
with tolerance; and amusements and enjoyments with approba¬ 
tion, and as deserving the highest sanctions of religion. Ingle- 
sant’s Christianity, therefore, was ignorant of doctrine and 
dogma of almost every kind, and concentrated itself altogether 
on what may be called the Idea of Christ, that is, a lively con¬ 
ception of and attraction to the person of the Saviour. This 
idea,—which comes to men in different ways, and which came 
to Inglesant for the first time in the sacrament at Gidding, 
being, I should suppose, a purely intellectual one,—would no 
doubt be inefficient and transitory, were it not for the unique 
and mysterious powder of attraction wdiich it undoubtedly pos¬ 
sesses. In the pursuit of this idea he received little assistance 
from Dr. More. The school to which the Doctor belonged,— 
the Christian Platonists,—had no tendency to that exclusive 
worship of the person of Jesus, which, in some religious schools, 
has almost superseded the worship of God. This he had received 
from the Jesuits, and the mystical books of Catholic devotion 
wffiich had had so great an inffuence over him. The Jesuits, 
wdth all their faults, held fast by the motive of their founder, 
and the worship of Jesus was by them carried to its fullest 
extent. Dr. More’s theology w^as more that of a philosophical 
Deism, into which the person and attributes of Christ entered 
as a part of an universal scheme, in which the imiverse, man¬ 
kind, the all-pervading Spirit of God, and the objects of thought 
and sense, played distinct and conspicuous parts. 

One fine and warm day in the early spring, Inglesant and the 
Doctor were w^alking in the garden at the side of the house 
bordering on the chase and park. The wide expanse of grassy 
upland stretched before them; overhead the arch of heaven, 
chequered by the wdiite clouds, w'as full of life and light and 
motion; across the w^ater of the lakes the Church bells, rung 


188 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap. xvir. 


for amusement by the village lads, came to the ear softened 
and yet enriched in tone; the spring air, fanned by a fresh 
breeze, refreshed the spirits and the sense. The Doctor began, 
as upon a favourite theme, to speak of his great sense of the 
^ower and benefit of the fresh air. 

“ I would always,” he said, “ be ‘ sub dio^ if it were 
possible. Is there anything more delicious to the touch than 
the soft cool air playing on our heated temples, recruiting and 
refrigerating the spirits and the blood 1 I can read, discourse, 
or think nowdiere as well as in some arbour, where the cool air 
rustles through the moving leaves; and what a rapture of nund 
does such a scene as this always inspire within me ! To a free 
and divine spirit how lovely, how magnificent, is this state for 
the soul of man to be in, when, the life of God inactuating her, 
she travels through heaven and earth, and unites with, and 
after a sort feels herself the life and soul of this whole world, 
even as God! This indeed is to become Deiform—not by 
imagination, but by union of life. God doth not ride me 
whither I know not, but discourseth with me as a friend, and 
speaks to me in such a dialect as I can understand fully,— 
namely, the outward world of His creatures; so that I am in 
fact ‘ Incola coeli in terrd’ an inhabitant of paradise and heaven 
upon earth ; and I may soberly confess that sometimes, walking 
abroad after my studies, I have been almost mad with pleasure, 
—the effect of nature upon my soul having been inexpressibly 
ravishing, and beyond what I can convey to you.” 

Inglesant said that such a state of mind was most blessed 
and much to be desired; but that few could hope to attain to 
it, and to many it would seem a fantastic enthusiasm. 

“No,” said the Doctor, “I am not out of my wits, as some 
may fondly interpret me, in this divine freedom; but the love 
of God compelleth me; and though you yoimself know the 
extent of fancy, when phantoms seem real external objects, yet 
here the principle of my opponents, the Quakers (who, it may 
be, are nearer to the purity of Christianity—for the life and 
power of it—than many others), is the most safe and reason¬ 
able,—to keep close to the Light within a man.” 

“You agree with the Quakers, then, in some points?” said 
Inglesant. 

“ They have indeed many excellent points, and very nobly 
Christian, which I wish they would disencumber from such 


CHAP. XVII.] 


A ROMANCE. 


189 


tilings as make them seem so imconth and ridiculous; but the 
reason our lady has taken so to them as to change some of her 
servants for Quakers, and to design to change more, is that 
they prove lovers of quiet and retirement, and they fit the 
circumstances that she is in, that cannot endure any noise, 
better than others ; for the weight of her affliction lies so heavy 
upon her, that it is incredible how very seldom she can endure 
any one in her chamber; and she finds them so still, quiet, and 
serious, that their company is very acceptable to her; and she 
is refreshed by the accounts of their trials and consolations, and 
their patience and support under great distress. Baron Van 
Helmont frequents their meetings.” 

“ What do you think of the Baron V* 

“ I think he knows as little of himself, truly and really, as 
one who had never seen him in his life.” 

Inglesant did not trj^ to penetrate into this oracular re¬ 
sponse ; but said,— 

“Have you seen Mr. Fox, the famous Quaker?” 

“Yes; I saw him once,” replied the Doctor; “and in con¬ 
versation with him I felt myself, as it were, turned into brass, 
so much did his spiiit and perversity oppress mine.” 

“ There are some men,” the Doctor went on, after a pause— 
but Inglesant did not know of whom he was thinking—“ that 
by a divine sort of fate are virtuous and good, and this to a 
very great and heroical degree; and come into the world rather 
for the good of others, and by a divine force, than through their 
own proper fault, or any immediate or necessary congruity of 
their natimes. All which is agreeable to that opinion of Plato, 
that some descend hither to declare the being and nature of 
the gods, and for the greater health, purity, and perfection of 
this lower world. I would fain believe, Mr. Inglesant,” he 
continued, to the other’s great surprise, “ that you are one of 
those. Ever since I first saw you I liave had some thought of 
this; and the more I see of you the more I hope and believe 
that some such work as this is reserved for you. You have, 
what is very happy for you, what I call an ethereal sort of 
Pody—to use the Pythagoric phrase—even in this life, a mighty 
purity and plenty of the animal spirits, which you may keep 
lucid by that conduct and piety by which you may govern 
yourself. And this makes it all the more incumbent on you to 
have a gi’eat care to keep in order this luciform vehicle of the 


190 JOHN INGLESANT; [chap. XVIII. 

soul, as tlie Platonists call it; for there is a sanctity of body 
■which the sensually-minded do not so much as dream of And 
this divine body should be cultivated as well as the divine life; 
for by how much any person partakes more of righteousness 
and virtue, he hath also a greater measure of this divine body 
or celestial matter within himself; he throws off the baser 
affections of the earthly body, and replenishes his inner man 
with so much larger draughts of ethereal or celestial matter; 
and to incite you still more to this effort, you have only to 
consider that the oracle of God is not to be heard but in His 
holy temple, that is to say, in a good and holy man, thoroughly 
sanctified in spirit, soul, and body.” 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

SiioETLY after the conversation recorded in the previous chapter, 
Inglesant, who appeared completely restored to healtli,—thanks 
to the Baron Van Helmont and to rest of body,—left Oulton, 
and, without going to London, went to Rye, and sailed thence 
to France, where he arrived about the middle of Llay 1651. 
He had taken a passage in a vessel sailing to Dieppe, and from 
thence he posted to Paris, this route being thought much safer 
than the one through Calais, which was much infested by 
robbers. 

He found Paris full of the fugitive Royalists in a state of 
distress and destitution, which was so great, that on the Queen 
of England’s going to St. Germain’s on one occasion, her credi¬ 
tors threatened to arrest her coach. The young King Charles 
was in Scotland, previous to his march into England, which 
terminated in the battle of Worcester. Inglesant was well re¬ 
ceived by the Royalists to whom he made himself known on his 
arrival. The Glamorgan negotiations were by this time pretty 
well understood among the Royalists, and Inglesant’s conduct 
fairly well appreciated. He had the reputation of being a use¬ 
ful and trustworthy agent, and as such was well received by the 
heads of the party. He presented himself at the Louvre, where 
the Queen was, who received him graciously, and expressed a 
wish that he would remain in Paris, as she had been speaking 
not many days ago with Father St. Clare concerning him. Ingle- 


CHAP. XVIII.] 


A ROMANCE. 


191 


sant inquired where the Jesuit was, and was told, at St. Ger¬ 
main’s with the French Court, and that he would be in Paris 
again shortly. After leaving the Queen, Inglesant applied to 
the merchants with whom his money was to have been lodged; 
but found that by some misunderstanding a much smaller sum had 
arrived than he had expected. Such as it was, however, he 
was able from it to make advances to the Royalist gentlemen, 
many of whom of the highest rank were in absolute distress; 
and he even advanced a considerable sum indirectly to the 
Queen, and, through the Duke of Ormond, to the young Duke 
of Gloucester. 

It is not necessary to enter into any details with regard to 
the state of France or the French Court at that time. The 
Court had been obliged to leave Paris some time before, owing 
to the violence of the populace, and was at present much em¬ 
barrassed from the same cause. It was therefore quite unable 
to afford any help to the distressed fugitives from England, had 
it wished to do so, and even the Queen Henrietta,—a daughter 
of France,—could scarcely obtain assistance, and was reduced 
to the greatest pecuniary distress. The Duke of Ormond parted 
with his last jewel to prociue money for the use of the Duke of 
Gloucester, whose guardian he was, and the inferior Royalists 
were reduced to still greater necessities. Ho sooner, therefore, 
was it known that Inglesant had means at his disposal, than he 
became once more a person of the greatest consequence, and 
every one sought liim out, or, if not before acquainted with him, 
desired an introduction. He frequented the Chapel of Sir 
Richard Browne, who had been ambassador from Charles the 
First, and still retained his privileges, his chapel, and his house¬ 
hold, being accredited from the young fugitive King to the French 
Coiu’t. This was the only Anglican place of worship in Paris, 
or indeed at that time, perhaps, in the world. Ordinations 
were performed there, and it was frequented by the King and 
the two yoimg Princes, the Duke of York and the Duke of 
Gloucester, and by all the Royalist fugitives then in Paris. 

Inglesant was the more welcome, as many of the Royalist 
gentlemen who liad any money at all, refused to stay in Paris, 
where there were so many claims upon them, but v/ent on to 
other countries, especially Italy. He found many of tliese 
gentlemen in a very, excited state, owing to the efforts of the 
Queen Mother to discom'age the English Church, and to win 


192 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap. XVIIl 


over perverts to Romanism. The King and the Duke, it is 
true, received the sacrament in the Ambassador’s Chapel, par¬ 
taking of it together before the other communicants. Lord Biron, 
Inglesant’s old friend, and Lord Wilmot, holding a white cloth 
before the two Princes; but the Queen Mother was making 
every etibrt to pervert the young Duke of Gloucester, and 
throwing all the weight of her influence and patronage on the 
side of the Papists. Several of the maids of honour had been 
discharged shortly before Inglesant’s arrival in Paris, for refus¬ 
ing to conform to the Romish Mass. Dr. Cosin, the Dean of 
Peterborough, a profound Ritualist, but at the same time 
devoted to the Anglican Church, had preached a sermon in the 
Chapel comforting and supporting these ladies. Inglesant 
being with the Queen at the Palais Royal, one morning as she 
was going to her private mass, was commanded to accompany 
her; and upon his readily complying, the Queen afterwards 
spoke to him on the subject of religion, inquiring why he, who 
had so long been so closely connected with the Catholic Church, 
did not become one of its members. Inglesant pleaded that 
the Jesuit, Father St. Clare, had discouraged him from joining 
the Papists as not convenient in the position in which he had 
been placed. The Queen said that the reasons which actuated 
the Father did not any longer exist, but that she would wait 
till she could take his advice; in the meantime requesting 
Inglesant to attend the Romish services as much as possible, 
which he promised to do. As a matter of choice, he preferred 
the English communion to the mass, but he regarded both as 
means of sacramental grace, and endeavoured at low mass to 
bring his mind into the same devout stillness and condition of 
adoration as at a communion. It would appear that about this 
time he must have been formally received into the Romish 
Church, for he confessed and received the sacrament at low 
mass; but no mention of the ceremony occurs, and it is possible 
that the priests received instructions respecting him, while there 
is clear proof that he attended the services at the Ambassador’s 
Chapel, and once at any rate partook of the sacrament there. 

Here he met with Mr. Hobbes, who expressed himself 
pleased to see him, and entered into long discourses with him 
respecting the Glamorgan negotiations and the late King’s 
policy generally,—discourses which were very instructive to 
Inglesant, though he felt a greater repugnance to the man than 


CHAP. XVIII.] 


A ROMANCE. 


193 


when he formerly met him in London. Tlie religious thoughts 
which had filled Inglesant’s mind at Oulton were far from for¬ 
gotten, and when he arrived in Paris, his first feeling had been 
one of dissatisfaction at finding himself at once involved again 
in political intrigue ; but Ids atfection for the Jesuit, apart from 
his desire to discover the Italian by his means, made him desire 
to meet him; and he continued in Paris, waiting with this 
intention, when an event occurred which altogether diverted his 
thoughts. 

He spent his time in many ways,—partly in acts of religion, 
partly in studies, frequenting several lectures, both in letters 
and in science, such as Mons. Febus’s course of chemistry. He 
also frequented the tennis court in the Rue Verdelet, where the 
King of England, and the princes and nobles, both of that 
country and of France, amused themselves. He had been at 
this latter place one morning, and something having happened 
to prevent the gentleman who had arranged to play the match 
from appearing, Inglesant, who was a good tennis player, had 
been requested to take his place against Mons. Saumeurs, the 
great French player. There was a large and brilliant attend¬ 
ance to watch the play, and Inglesant exerted himself to the 
utmost, so much so, that he earned the applause and thanks 
of the company for the brilliant match played before them. 
Having at last been beaten, which occurred probably when the 
great player considered he had afforded sufficient amusement to 
the spectators, Inglesant turned to leave the court, having 
resumed his dress and sw’ord, when he was accosted by an 
English nobleman whom he very slightly knew; who, no doubt 
inffuenced by the applause and attention which Inglesant had 
excited, asked him to dine with him at a neighbouring place of 
entertainment. After dinner the gentleman told Inglesant that 
he was in the habit, together with many other English who 
wished to perfect their knowledge of French, of resorting to one 
or other of the convents of Paris, to talk with the ancient 
sisters, whose business it was to receive strangers, and had 
several such acquaintances with whom he might “ chat at the 
grates, for the nuns speak a quaint dialect, and have besides 
most commonly all the news that passes, which they are ready 
to discourse upon as long as you choose to listen, whereby you 
gain a greater knowledge of the most correct and refined 
manner of speaking of all manner of common and trifling events 


194 JOHN INGLESANT; [chap. XVIII. 

than you could otliervdse gain.” He said that he had received 
a parcel of English gloves and knives from England the day 
before, some of which he intended that afternoon taking to one 
of his “Devota” (as they call a friend in a convent, he said, in 
Spain), and wmuld take Inglesant with him if the latter wished 
to come. Inglesant willingly consented, and they went to a 

convent of the-in the Rue des Terres Fortes. They found 

the ancient nun—a little courtly old lady—as amusing and 
pleasant as they expected; and she was on her part apparently 
equally pleased with Lord Cheney’s presents, and with Ingle- 
sant’s courteous discourse and good French. She invited Ingle¬ 
sant to visit her again, but the next day he received a message 
which was brought by a servant of the convent, who had found 
his lodgings with some difficulty through Lord Cheney, request¬ 
ing him to come to the convent at once. It lay in a retired 
and rather remote part of the city, and but for his friend’s 
introduction he would never have visited it. Thinking the 
message somewhat strange, he complied with the request, and 
ill the afternoon found himself again in the convent parlour. 
The nun came immediately to the grate. 

“ Ah, monsieur,” she said, “ I am glad that you are come. 
You think it strange, doubtless, that I should send for you sc 
soon; but I spoke of you last night to an inmate of this house, 
who is a compatriot of yours, and who, I am sorry to say, is 
very ill,—nay, I fear at the point of death,—and she told me 
she had known you very well—ah, very well ind( ed—^in times 
past; and she entreated me to send to you if I (oul 1 find out 
your residence. I only knew of you through Miiord Chene, 
but I sent to him.” 

“ What is this lady’s name, madame f’ said Inglesant, who, 
even then, did not guess who it was. 

“ Ah, her name,” said the mm; “ her name is Collette— 
Mademoiselle Marie Collette.” 

She had the door in the grate opened for Inglesant, and 
took him through the house, and past a court planted with 
trees, to a small and quiet room overlooking the distant wood¬ 
lands. There, upon a little bed—her face white, her hands 
and form wasted to a shadow, only her wonderful eyes the same 
as ever—lay Mary Collet, her face lighting up and her weak 
hands trembling as he came in. On his knees by the bedside, 
his face buried in his hands, her white fingers playing over his 



A ROMANCE. 


195 


CHAP. XVIIT.] 

hair, Inglesant could not speak, dare not even look up. The 
old nun looked on kindly for some few minutes, and then left 
them. 

Mary was the first to speak, and as she spoke, Inglesant 
raised his hea 1 and fixed his eyes on hers, keeping down the 
torrent of grief that all but mastered him as he might. 

She spoke to him of her joy at seeing him—she so lonely 
and lost in a foreign land, separated from all her friends and 
family,—not knowing indeed where they were; of the sufferings 
and hardship she had passed through since they had left Gidding 
—hardships which had caused the fever .of which she lay dying 
as she spoke. She had come to Paris after parting from her 
uncle in Brittaii}'-, where they had suffered much deprivation 
with the Lady Blount, and had been received into tliis convent, 
wdrere she had meant to take the veil; but the fever gi'ew upon 
her, and the physicians at last gave her no hope of recovery. 
There she had lain day after day, tended by the kind nuns with 
every care, yet growing weaker and more w^ary—longing for 
some voice or face of her own country or of former days. While 
she had been well enough to listen, the nuns had told her all 
the little scraps of news relating to her own countrymen and 
to the Queen which had reached them; but Inglesant’s arrival 
was not likely to be among these, and Mary had heard nothing 
of his being in Paris till the night before, wdien the kindly old 
nun, finding her a little better than usual, had thought to amuse 
her by speaking of the pleasant young Englishman wdio spoke 
French so 'well, and whose half foreign name she could easily 
remember, and who. Lord Cheney had told her, had been one 
of the most faithful servants of the poor murdered King. 

The start of the dying girl before her, her flushed face as 
she raised herself in bed and threw heiself into her friend’s 
arms, entreating her that this.old friend, the dearest friend she 
had ever known—ah ! dearer now than ever—might be sent 
for at once while she had life and strength to speak to him, 
showed the nun that this was yet again a reacting of that old 
story that never tires a -woman’s heart. The nuns were not' 
strict—far from it—and, even had Mary already taken the veil, 
the sisters would have thought little blame of her even for 
remembering that once she dreamt of another bridegroom than 
the heavenly Spouse. The nun had promised to send early in 
the morning to Lord Cheney, who, no doubt, knew the abode 


196 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap, XVIII. 


of Iiis friend; and Maiy, as she finished telling all this in her 
low and weak speech, lay still and quiet, looking upon her friend 
almost with as calm and peaceful a glance of her absorbing eyes 
as when she had looked at him in the garden parlour at Gidding 
years ago. He himself said little; it was not his words she 
wanted, could he have spoken them. That he was there by 
her, looking up in her face, holding her hand, was quite enough. 
At last she said,— 

“And that mission to the Papist murderers, Johnny, you 
did not wish to bring them into England of your own accord, 
or only as a plot of the Jesuits 1 Surely you were but the ser¬ 
vant of one whom you could not discover.” 

“ I had the King’s own commission for all I did, for every 
word I said,” said Inglesant eagerly—“ a commission written 
by himself, and signed in my presence, which he gave me him¬ 
self That was the paper the Lord Biron would not burn.” 

“ I knew it must be so, Johnny; my uncle told me it must 
be so. It seems to me you have served a hard master, though 
you do not complain. We heard about the scaffold at Charing 
Cross. Will you serve your heavenly Master as well as you 
have served your King V’ 

“ I desire to serve Him, am seeking to serve Him even now, 
but I do not find the way. Tell me how I can serve Him, 
IVIary, and I swear to you I will do whatever you shall say.” 

“ He must teach you, Johnny, not I. I doubt not that 
you follow Him now, will serve Him hereafter much better than 
I could ever show you—could ever do myself Whatever men 
may think of the path you have already chosen, no one can say 
you have not walked in it steadily to the end. Only walk in 
this way as steadily, Jolmii}^,—only follow your heart as un¬ 
flinchingly, when it points you to Him. I will do nothing 
night and day while I live, Johnny, but pray to Jesus that He 
may lead you to Himself” 

The old familiar glamour that shed such a holy radiance on 
the woods and fields of Gidding, now, to Inglesant’s senses, 
filled the little convent room. The light of heaven that entered 
the open window with the perfume of the hawthorn was lost in 
the diviner radiance that shone from this girl’s face into tlie 
depths of his being, and bathed the place where she was in 
light. His heart ceased to beat, and he lay, as in a trance, to 
bcliold the glory of God. 


CHAP. XIX.] 


A ROMANCE. 


197 


CHAPTER XIX 

Ingles ANT was present at the funeral in the cemetery of the 
convent, and caused a white marble cross to be set over the 
grave. He remained in his lodgings several days, melancholy 
and alone. His whole nature was shaken to the foundation, 
and life was made more holy and solemn to him than ever 
before. The burden of worldly matters became intolerable, and 
the coil that had been about his life so long grew more oppres¬ 
sive till it seemed to stifle his soul. He desired to listen to the 
Divine Voice, but the voice seemed silent, or to speak only the 
language of worldly plans and schemes. He desired to live a 
life of holiness, but the only life that seemed possible to him 
was one of business and intrigue. What was this life of holi¬ 
ness that men ought to lead? Could it be followed in the 
world ? Or must he retire to some monastic solitude to culti¬ 
vate it; and was it certain that it would flourish even there ? 
It seemed more and more impossible for him to find it; he was 
repulsed and turned back upon his worldly life at every attempt 
he made. He almost resolved to give up the Jesuit, and to 
seek some more spiritual guide. He remembered Cressy, who 
had become a Romanist, and a Benedictine monk of the Monas¬ 
tery at Douay, and was at that moment in Paris. 

When Inglesant had been last in Oxford, the secession of 
Hugh Paulin Cressy, as he had been named at the font in 
Wakefield Church,—Serenus de Cressy, as he called himself in 
religion,—had created a painful and disturbed impression. A 
Fellow of Merton, the chaplain and friend of Lord Strafibrd, 
and afterwards of Lord Falkland, a quick and accurate disput¬ 
ant, a fine and persuasive preacher, a man of sweet and attract¬ 
ive nature, and of natural and acquired refinement,—he was 
one of the leaders of the highest thought and culture of the 
University. When it was known, therefore, that this man, so 
admired and beloved, had seceded to Popery, the interest and 
excitement were very great, and one of Archbishop Usher’s 
friends writes to him in pathetic words of the loss of this bright 
ornament of the Church, 'and of the danger to others which his 
example might cause. 


198 


JOHN INGLESANT ; 


[chap. ■JilX. 


He was at present in Paris, where the conjuncture of re¬ 
ligious affairs was very exciting. There was much in the dis¬ 
cussions which were going on singularly fitted to Inglesant’s 
state of mind, and in some degree conducive to it. The Jesuits, 
both in Rome and Paris, were occupied as they had been for 
several years, in that great controversy with the followers of 
Jansenius, which, a few years afterwards, culminated in those 
discussions and that condemnation in the Sorbonne so graphic¬ 
ally described by Pascal. We have only to do with it as it 
affected Inglesant, and it is therefore not necessary to inquire 
what w'ere the real reasons which caused the Jesuits to oppose 
the Jansenists. The point at which the controversy had arrived, 
wdien Inglesant was in Paris, was one w'hich touched closely 
upon the toj)ics most interesting to his heart. This was the 
doctrine of sufficient grace. The Jesuits, on this as in aU other 
matters, had taken that side which is undoubtedly most pleasing 
to the frailty of the human heart,—an invariable policy, to 
which they owed their supremacy over the popular mind. 

When the faithful came to the theologians to inquire what 
was the true state of human nature since its corruption, they 
received St. Augustine’s answer, confirmed by St. Bernard and 
St. Thomas Aquinas, and finally adopted by the Jansenists,— 
“ That human nature has no more sufficient grace than God is 
pleased to bestow upon it, and that fresh efficacious grace must 
constantly be given by God, which grace God does not give to 
all, and without which no man can be saved.” In opposition 
to this, the Jesuits, about the time of the Reformation, came 
forward with what v’as called a new doctrine,—that sufficient 
grace is given to all men, as men, but so far compliant with 
free-wdll that this latter, makes the former efficacious or ineffica¬ 
cious at its choice, without any new supply from God. The 
Jansenists retorted that this doctrine rendered unnecessary the 
efficacious grace of Jesus Christ; but that this does not follow 
is plain, for this efficacious grace of God that is given to all men 
once for all, may be owing to the sacrifice of Christ. To many 
natures this universal gracious beneficent doctrine of all-pervad¬ 
ing grace, which includes all mankind, was much more pleasing 
than the doctrine of the necessity of special grace, involving 
spiritual assumption in those who possess it, or say they do, 
and bitter uncertainty and depression in humble, self-doubting, 
and thoughtfifi minds. It resembled also the doctrines of the 


CHAP. XIX.] 


A ROMANCE. 


199 


Laudiiin School, in which lugiesant had been brought up. So 
attractive indeed was it, that the Benedictines v/ere compelled 
to profess it, and to pietend to side with the Jesuits, while in 
reality hating their doctrine. 

AVhen Inglesant remembered Cressy, and remembered also 
that he belonged to the Benedictines, the polished and learned 
cultivators of the useful arts, and was told that Cressy had 
chosen this order that he might have leisure and books to pro¬ 
secute his studies and his writings, he conceived great hope that 
from him he should learn the happy mean he was in search of, 
between the worldliness of the Jesuits on the one hand, and the 
narrow repulsiveness of the Mendicant orders and the Calvinists 
on the other. In this frame of mind he sought an interview 
with Cressy. The directions of the Jesuits and of the Laudian 
School seemed to Inglesant to have failed; to have associated 
himself with the Jansenists or Calvinists would have been dis¬ 
tasteful to him, and almost impossible. He sought in the 
Benedictine monk that compromise which the heart of man is 
perpetually seeking between the things of this world and the 
things of God. But though for the time the influence of the 
training of his life was somewhat shaken, it was far from 
removed, and an event occurred which, even before he saw 
Cressy, reforged the chains upon him to some extent. One 
Sunday evening, the day before he was to meet Cressy, walking 
along the Bue St. Martin from the Boulevard where he had 
lodgings, he turned into the Jesuits’ Chui'ch just as the sermon 
had begun. The dim light found its way into the vast Church 
from the stained windows; a lamp burning before some shrine 
shone partially on the preacher, as he stood in the stone pulpit 
by a great pillar, in his white surplice and licit embroidered 
stole. He was a young man, thin and sad-looking, and spoke 
slowly,, and with long pauses and intervals, but with an intense 
eagerness and pathos that went to every heart. The first words 
that Inglesant heard, as he reached the nearest unoccupied place, 
were these:— 

“Ah! if you adored a God crowned with roses and with 
pearls, it were a matter nothing strange; but to prostrate 
yourselves daily before a crucifix, charged with nails and thorns, 
—you living in such excess and superfluity in the flesh, dissolved 
in softness,—how can that be but cruel 1 Ah, think of that 
crucifix as you lie warm in silken curtains, perfumed with can de 


200 


JOHN INGLESANT: 


[chap. xrx. 


iiaffe, as you sit at dainty feasts, as you ride forth in the sun¬ 
shine in gallantry. He is cold and naked j He is alone; behind 
Him the sky is dreary and streaked with darkening clouds, lor 
the night cometh—the night of God. His locks are wet with 
the driving rain; His hair is frozen with the sleet; His beauty 
is departed from Him; all men have left Him—all men, and 
God also, and the holy angels hide their faces. He is crowned 
with thorns, but you with garlands; He wears nothing in his 
hands but piercing nails; you have rubies and diamonds on 
yours. All! will you tell me you can still be faithful though 
in brave array ? I give that answer which Tertullian gave,— 

‘ I fear this neok snared with wreaths and ropes of pearls and 
emeralds. I fear the sword of persecution can find no entrance 
there.’ No ! hear you not the voice of the crucifix? Follow 
me. We are engaged to suffer by His sufierings as we look on 
Him. Suffering is our vow and profession. Love which can¬ 
not suffer is unworthy of the name of lo^e.” 

if; * * * * 

The next day, at the appointed hour, he went to the Bene¬ 
dictine Monastery, in the Kue de Varrennes, and sent in his 
name to Father de Cressy. He was shown, not into the visitors’ 
room, but into a private parlour, where Cressy came to him 
immediately. Dressed in the habit of his order, with a lofty 
and refined expression, he was a striking and attractive man; 
differing from the Jesuit in that, though both were equally per¬ 
suasive, the latter united more power of controlling others than 
the appearance of Cressy implied. He had known Iiiglesant 
slightly at Oxford, and greeted him with gi'eat cordiality. 

“I am not surprised that you are come to me, Mr. Ingle- 
sant,” he said, with a most winning gesture and smile; “De 
Guevera, who was himself both a courtier and a recluse, says 
that the penance of religious men was sweeter than the pleasures 
of courtiers. Has yom: experience brought you to the same 
conclusion ?” 

Inglesant thanked him for granting him an interview : and 
sitting down, he told him shortly the story of his life, and his 
early partiality for the mystical theology; of his wishes and 
attempts; of his desire to follow the Divine Master; and of 
his failures and discouragements, his studies, his Pagan sym¬ 
pathies ; and how life and reality of every kind, and inquiry, 
and the truth of history, and philosophy, even while it sided 


A ROMANCE. 


201 


CHAP. XIX.] 

with or supported rcdgion, still seemed to hinder and oppose the 
heavenly walk. 

“ I do not know, Mr. Inglesant,” said De Cressy, “whether 
your case is easier or more difficult than that of those who 
usually come to me; I have many come to me; and they usually, 
one and all, come with the exact words of the blessed gospel on 
their lips, ‘ Sir, we would see Jesus.’ And I look them in the 
face often, and wonder, and often find no words to speak. See 
Jesus, I often think, I do not doubt it ! who would not wish 
to see Him who is the fulness of all perfection that the heart 
and intellect ever conceived, in whom all creation has its centre, 
all the troubles and sorrows of life have their cure, all the long¬ 
ings of carnal men their fruition '1 But why come to me 1 Is 
He not walking to and fro on the earth continually, in every 
act of charity and self-sacrifice that is done among men ? Is 
He not offered daily on every altar, preached continually from 
ev*ery pulpit? Why come to me? Old men of sixty and 
seventy come to me with these very words, ‘ Sir, we would see 
Jesus.’ If the course of sixty years, if the troubles and con- 
fiisions of a long life, if He Himself has not revealed tliis 
Beatific Vision to them,—how can I ? But with you it is very 
different.- By your own story I know that you have seen Jesus; 
that you know Him as you know your dearest friend. This 
makes our discoiu'se at first much the easier, for I need waste 
no words upon a matter to enlarge upon which to you would 
be an insult to your heart. But it makes it more difficult 
afterwards, when we come to ask how it is that, with this 
transcendental knowledge, you are still dissatisfied, and find life 
so difficult a path to tread. I make no apology for speaking 
plainly; such would be as much an insult to you as the other. 
You remind me of the rich oratories I have seen of some of our 
Court ladies, where everything is beautiful and costly, but 
where a classic statue of Apollo stands by the side of a crucifix, 
a Venus with our Lady, a Cupid near St. Michael, and a pair 
of beads hanging on Mercury’s Caduceus. 

“You are like the young man who came to Jesus, and 
whom Jesus loved, for you have great possessions. You have 
been taught all that men desire to know, and are accomplished 
in aU that makes life delightful. You have the knowledge of 
the past, and know the reality of men’s power, and wisdom, 
and beauty, which they possess of themselves, and did possess 


202 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap, xii:. 


in the old classic times. You have culled of the tree of know¬ 
ledge, and know good and evil; yea, the good that belongs to 
this world, and is part of it, and the strength and wisdom and 
beauty of the children of this world; yea, and the evil and 
ignorance and folly of the children of light. Let us grant—I 
am willing to grant—that Plato has a piu-er spiritual instinct 
than St. Paul. I will grant that Lucretius has the wisdom of 
this world with him; ay, and its alluring tongue. Paul did 
not desire spiritual insight; he wanted Jesus. You stand as a 
god free to choose. On the one hand, you have the delights 
of reason and of intellect, the beauty of that wonderful creation 
which God made, yet did not keep; the charms of Divine 
philosophy, and the enticements of tlie poet’s art; on the other 
side, Jesus. You know Him, and have seen Him. I need say 
no more of His perfections. 

“I do not speak to you, as I might speak to others, of 
penalties and sufferings hereafter, in which, probably, you do 
not believe. Nor do I speak to you, as I might to others, of 
evidences that om' faith is true, of proofs that hereafter we 
shall walk with Christ and the saints in glory. I am willing 
to grant you that it may be that we are mistaken; that in the 
life to come we may find we have been deceived; nay, that 
Jesus Himself is in a different station and position to what we 
preach. This is nothing to your purpose. To those who know 
Him as you know Him, and have seen Him as you have, better 
Jesus, beaten and defeated, than all the universe besides, 
triumphing and crowned. I offer to you nothing but the 
alternative which every man sooner or later must place before 
himself. Shall he turn a deaf ear to the voice of reason, and 
lay himself open only to the light of faith 1 or shall he let 
human wisdom and human philosophy break up this light, as 
through a glass, and please himself with the varied colours upon 
the path of life ? Every man must choose ; and having chosen, 
it is futile to lament and regret; he must abide by his choice, 
and by the different fruit it brings. You wish this life’s wisdom, 
and to walk with Christ as well; and you are your own witness 
that it cannot be. The two cannot walk together, as you have 
found. To you, especially, this is the great test and trial that 
Christ expects of you to the very full. We of this religious 
order have gi\'en ourselves to learning, as you know; nay, in 
former years, to that Pagan learning, which is so attractive to 


CHAP. XIX.] 


A ROMANCK 


203 


you, though of late years we devote ourselves to producing 
editions of the Fathers of the Church. But even this you must 
keep yourself from. To most men this study is no temptation : 
to you it is fatal. I put before you your life, with no false 
colouring, no tampering with the truth. Come with me to 
Douay; you shall enter our house according to the strictest 
rule; you shall engage in no study that is any delight or effort 
to the intellect; but you shall teach the smallest children in 
the schools, and visit the poorest people, and perform the duties 
of the household—and all for Christ. I promise you on the 
faith of a gentleman and a priest—I promise you, for I have 
no shade of doubt—that in this path you shall find the satis¬ 
faction of the heavenly walk; you shall walk with Jesus day by 
day, growing ever more and more like to Him; and your path, 
without the least fall or deviation, shall lead more and more 
into the hght, until you come unto the perfect day; and on 
your death-bed—the death-bed of a saint—the vision of the 
smile of God shall sustain you, and Jesus Himself shall meet 
you at the gates of eternal life.” 

Every word that Cressy spoke.went straight to Inglesant’s 
conviction, and no single word jarred upon his taste. He 
implicitly believed that what the Benedictine offered him he 
should find. There was no doubt—could be no doubt—that it 
was by such choice as this that such men as Cressy gained for 
themselves a power in the heavenly warfare, and not only 
attained to the heavenly walk themselves, but moved the earth 
to its foundations, and drew thousands into the ranks of Christ. 
He saw the choice before him fairly, as Cressy had said, and 
indeed, it was not for the first time. Then his mind went back 
to his old master, and to that school where no such thing as 
this was required of him, and yet the heavenly light offered to 
him as freely as by this man. The sermon of the night before 
came into his mind again; simely where such doctrine as that 
was preached, might he not find rest ? It was true that his 
coming there, and his confession, closed his hps before Cressy; 
but might he not have been too hasty ? Life was not yet over 
witli hfm; perchance he might yet find what he sought in some 
other way. He saw the path of perfect self-denial open before 

_renunciation, not of pleasure, nor even of the world, but 

of himself, of his intellect, of his very life,—and distinctly of 
his free choice he refused it. This only may be said for him : 


204 


JOHN inglesant: 


[chap. XIX. 

he was convinced that every word the Benedictine had said to 
him was true,—that in the life he offered him he should follow 
and find the Lord; but he Avas not equally convinced that it 
was the will of Christ that he should accept this life, and should 
follow and find Him in this way, and in no other. Had he 
been as clear of this as of the tnith of Cressy’s words, then 
indeed would his turning away have been a clear denial of 
Jesus Christ; but it was the voice of Cressy that spoke to him, 
and not the voice of Christ; it came to him with a conviction 
and a power all but irresistible, but it failed to carry with it 
the absolute conviction of the heavenly call. How could it? 
The heavenly call itself must speak very loud before it silences 
and convinces the unwilling heart. 

He rose from his seat before the monk, and looking sadly 
down upon him he said,— 

“ I believe all that you say and all that you promise, and 
that the heavenly walk lies before me in the road that you have 
pointed out; but I cannot follow it—it is too strait. I return 
yoiu’ kindness and your plainness with words equally plain; 
and Avhile you think of me as lost and unworthy, it may be 
some well-earned satisfaction to you to remember that none ever 
spoke truer, or nobler, or kinder words to any man than you 
have spoken to me.” 

“I do not look on you as lost, Mr. Inglesant,—far from 
it,” said Cressy, rising as he spoke; “I expect you will yet 
witness a good confession for Christ in the Avorld and in the 
Court; but I believe you have had to-day a more excellent way 
shown you, which, but for the trammels of your birth and 
training, you might have had grace to walk in, for your own 
exceeding blessedness and the greater glory of the Lord Christ. 
I wish you every benediction of this life and of the next; and 
I shall remember you at the altar as a young man who came to 
Jesus, and whom Jesus loves.” 

Inglesant took his leave of him, and left the monastery. He 
came aAvay very sorrowful from Serenus de Cressy. Whether 
he also, at the same time, was turning away from Jesus Christ, 
who can tell ? 

The next dav the Jesuit arrived in Paris. 


CHAP. XX.] 


A ROMANCE. 


205 


CHAPTER XX. 

Inglesant was much struck with the change in the Jesuit’s 
appearance. He was worn and thin, and looked discouraged 
and depressed. He was evidently extremely pleased to see his 
pupil again, and his manner was affectionate and even respectful. 
He appeared shaken and nervous, and Inglesant fancied that he 
was rather shy of meeting him; but if so, it soon passed off 
under the influence of the cordial greeting with which he was 
received. 

To Inglesant’s inquiry as to where he had been, the Jesuit 
answered that it did not matter; he had succeeded very imper¬ 
fectly in his mission, whatever it had been. He asked Inglesant 
whether he had met with Sir Kenelm Digby, or heard anything 
of him. In reply to which Inglesant told him the reports 
which he had heard concerning him. 

“He is mad,” said the Jesuit, “and he is not the less 
dangerous. He was sent to Rome by the Queen, where he 
made great mischief, and offended the Pope by his insolence. 
He has sided with the Parliament in England, and is engaged 
on a scheme to persuade Cromwell to recall the King, and seat 
him on the throne as an elective monarch. The Queen does 
not wish to break with him altogether, both because he has great 
influence with some powerful Catholics, and because, if nothing 
better can be done, she would perforce accept the elective mon¬ 
archy for her son. But the scheme is chimerical, and will come 
to nothing. Cromwell intends the crown for himself. You see, 
Johnny,” continued St. Clare with a smile, “all our plans have 
failed. The English Church is destroyed, and those Catholics 
who always opposed it are thought much of at Rome now, and 
carry all before them. J have not altered my opinion, however, 
and I shall die in the same. But we must wait. I do not 
wish to influence you any more, nor to involve you any longer 
in any schemes of mine, , but the Queen wants you to go as an 
agent to Rome in her behalf; and it would be of great service 
to me, and to any plans which I may in future have, if I had 
such a friend and correspondent as yourself in that city. If you 
liavc no other plans, I do not see that you could do much better 


206 


JOHN INGLESANT: 


[chap. XX. 


than go. You shall have such introductions to my friends there 
—cardinals and great men—that you may live during your stay 
in the best company and luxury, and without expense. One of 
my friends is the Cardinal Rinuccini, brother of the Legate the 
Bishop of Fermo, whom you met in Ireland, and who, by the 
by, was much impressed with you. You cannot fail to make 
friends with many who will have it in their power to be of great 
use to you; and you may establish yourself in some lucrative 
post, either as a layman, or, if you choose to take orders, as a 
priest. You will believe me, also, when I say,—what I say to 
very few,—that I am under obligations to you which I can never 
repay, and nothing will give me greater pleasure than to see you 
rich and prosperous, and admired and powerful in the Roman 
Court. You have the qualities and the experience to command suc¬ 
cess. You will be backed by the whole power of my friends, with 
whom to make your fortune will be the work of an after-dinner’s 
talk. You will see Italy, and delight yourself in the sight of 
all those places and antiquities of which we have so often talked; 
and with yoim cultivated and rehgious tastes you will enter, with 
the most perfect advantage, into that magic world of sight and 
sound which the churches and sacred services in Rome present 
to the devout. I cannot see that you can do better than go.” 

Inglesant sat looking at the Jesuit with a singular expres¬ 
sion in his eyes, which the latter did not understand. Yes, 
surely it was a very different offer from that of Serenus de 
Cressy, yet Inglesant did not delay to answer from any inde¬ 
cision ; from the moment the Jesuit began to speak he knew 
that he should go. But he took a kind of melancholy pleasure 
in contrasting the two paths, the two men, the different choice 
they offered him, and in reading a half sad, half sarcastic com¬ 
mentary on himself 

After a minute or two, he said,— 

“ I thank you much for your good-will and quite undeserved 
patronage. It is by far too good an offer to be refused, and I 
gladly accept it. You know, doubtless, what has happened to 
me, especially within these last few days, and that I have no 
friend left on earth save yourself; such a journey as that which 
you propose to me will, at the least, distract my thoughts from 
such a melancholy fate as mine.” 

“I knew of your brother’s murder,” said the Jesuit; “I 
have heard of the man before—one of those utterly lost and 


A ROMANCK 


CHAP. XX.] 


207 


villainous natiues which no country but Italy ever produced. 
Do you wish to seek him 

Inglesant told him that one of his principal objects in stay¬ 
ing in Paris was to seek his assistance for that purpose; and 
that he felt it a sacred duty, which he owed to his brother, that 
his murderer should not escape unpunished. 

“ I have no doubt I can learn where he is,” said the other; 
“ but I do not well see what you can do when you have found 
liim, unless it happens to be in a place where you have powerful 
friends. It is true that he is so generally known and hated in 
Italy, that you might easily get help in punishing him should 
you meet him there; but he is hardly likely to return to his 
native country, except for some powerful reason.” 

“If I can do nothing else,” said Inglesant bitterly, “I can 
tell him who I am and shoot him dead, or run him through the 
body. He murdered my brother, just as he had come back to me 
—to me in prison and alone, and was a loving friend and brother 
to me, and would have been through life. Do you suppose that 
I should spare him, or that any moment 'will be so delightful to 
me as the one in which I see him bleed to death at my feet, as I 
saw my poor brother, struck by his hand, as he shall be by mine?” 

The Jesuit looked at Inglesant with surprise. The terrible 
earnestness of his manner, and the unrelenting and grim pleasure 
he seemed to take at the prospect of revenge, seemed so incon¬ 
sistent with the refined and religious tone of his ordinary char¬ 
acter, approaching almost to weakness; but the next moment 
he thought, “ Why should I wonder at it! The man who has 
gone through what he did without flinching must have a strength 
of purpose about him far other than some might think.” 

He said aloud,— 

“ Well, I doubt not I can find him; he is well known in 
France, in Sj^ain, and in Italy, and if he goes to Germany he 
can be traced. But what was the other sad misfortune you 
spoke of?—something within the last few days, you said.” 

Inglesant had been looking fixedly before him since he had 
last spoken, with a steady blank expression, which, since his 
imprisonment, his face sometimes wore,—part of a certain wild¬ 
ness in his look which bespoke a mind ill at ease and a confused 
brain. He was following up his prey to the death. 

He started at the Jesuit’s question, and seemed to recollect 
with an effort; then he said,— 


208 


JOHN inglesant; 


[chap. XX. 


“Mary Collet died at the convent of the Nuns of the- 

last week. I only found her out the night beforeand as he 
spoke, the contrast arose in his mind of the death-bed of the 
saint-like gHj Italian’s bleeding body struck down by 

his revenge. The footsteps of the Saviour he had promised his 
friend to follow, surely could not lead him to such a scene as that. 
If this were the first-fruits of his refusal to follow Serenus de 
Cressy, surely he must also have turned his back on Clirist 
Himself. 

He covered his face with his hands, and the Jesuit saw that 
he wept. He supposed it was simply from grief at the death 
of his friend, and he was surprised at the strength of his attach¬ 
ment. Like others, he had thought Inglesant’s love a rather 
cool and Platonic passion. 

“ I always thought him one of those nice and coy lovers,” 
he said to himself, “ who always observe some defect in the 
thing they love, which weakens their passion, and shows them 
that the reality is so much inferior to their idea, that they easily 
desist from their enterprise, and vanish as if they had not so 
much intention to love as to vanish, and had more shame to 
have begun their courtship than purpose to continue it. He 
must be much shaken by his suffering and by his brother’s 
death.” 

He waited a few moments, and then spoke to Inglesant 
about his health, of his brother’s death, and of his imprison¬ 
ment. He spoke to him of the late King, and of his distress 
at the necessity under which he lay of denying Inglesant’s com¬ 
mission : and he said many other things calculated to cheer his 
friend and please his self-regai*d. 

Inglesant listened to him not without pleasure, but he said 
little. An idea had taken possession of his mind, which he 
carried Avith him into Italy and for long afterwards. He was 
more than half convinced that, in rejecting Cressy’s advice, he 
had turned his back on Christ; and he was the more confirmed 
in this belief because never had the image of the Italian, nor 
the desire of revenge, taken-so strong a hold upon his imagina¬ 
tion as now. It occurred to his excited imagination that Christ 
had deserted him, and the Fiend taken possession, and that the 
course and intention of the latter would be to lure him on, by 
such images, to some terrible and lonely place, where the Italian 
and he together should be involved in one common ghastly deed 



CHAP. XXI.] A ROMANCE. 1^09 

of crime, one common and eternal ruin. The sense of having 
had a great act of self-denial placed before him and having 
refused it, no doubt weighed down and blunted his conscience"; 
and once placed, as he half thought, upon the downward path, 
nothing seemed before him but the gradual descent, adorned at 
first by some poor show of gaudy flowers, but ending speedily— 
tor there was no self-delusion to such a nature as his, which had 
tasted of the heavenly food—in miserable and filthy mire, where, 
loathing himself and despised by others, nothing awaited him but 
eternal death. He answered the Jesuit almost mechanically, 
and on parting from him at night promised indifferently to 
accompany him on the morrow to an audience with the Queen. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

Ingles ANT travelled to Marseilles, and by packet boat to Genoa. 
The beauty of the approach by sea to this city, and the lovely 
gardens and the country around, gave him the greatest delight. 
The magnificent streets of palaces, mostly of marble, and the 
thronged public places, the galleries of paintings, and the 
museums, filled his mind with astonishment; and the entrance 
into Italy, wonderful as he had expected it to be, surpassed his 
anticipation. He stayed some time in Genoa, to one or more 
of the Jesuit fathers in which city he had letters. Under the 
guidance of these cultivated men he commenced an education in 
art, such as in these days can be scarcely understood. From 
his coming into Italy a new life had dawned upon him in the 
music of that country. Fascinated as he had always been with 
the Church music at London and Oxford, for several years he 
had been cut off from all such enjoyment, and, at its best, it 
was but the prelude to what he heard now. For whole hours 
he would remain on his knees at mass, lost and wandering in 
that strange world of infinite variety, the mass music—so various 
in its phases, yet with a monotone of pathos through it all. 
The musical parties were also a great pleasime. He played the 
violin a little in England, and rapidly improved by the excellent 
tuition he met with here. He became, however, a proficient in 
what the Italians called the viola d’amore^ a treble viol, strung 
with wire, which attracted him by its soft and sweet tone. 

p 


210 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap. XXI. 


Amid a concord of sweet sounds, within hearing of the splash of 
fountains, and surrounded by the rich colours of an Italian in¬ 
terior, the young Englishman found himself in a new world of 
delight. As the very soul of music, at one moment merry and 
the next mad with passion and delightful pain, uttered itself in 
the long-continued tremor of the violins, it took possession in all 
its power of Inglesant’s spirit. The whole of life is recited upon 
the plaintive strings, and by their mysterious effect upon the 
brain fibres, men are brought into sympathy with life in all its 
forms, from the gay promise of its morning sunrise to the silence 
of its gloomy night. 

From Genoa he went to Sienna, where he stayed some time 
—the dialect here being held to be very pure, and fit for for¬ 
eigners to accustom themselves to. He spoke Italian before 
with sufiicient ease, and associating with several of the religious 
in this city he soon acquired the language perfectly. There can 
be nothing more delightfid than the first few days of life in 
Italy in the company of polished and congenial men. Inglesant 
enjoyed life at Sienna very much; the beautiful clean town, all 
marble and polished brick, the shining walls and pavement 
softened and shaded by gardens and creeping vines, the piazza 
and fountains, the cool retired walks with distant prospects, the 
Duomo, within and without of polished marble inexpressibly 
beautiful, with its exceeding sweet music and well-timed organs, 
the libraries full of objects of the greatest interest, the statues 
and antiquities everywhere interspersed. 

The summer and winter passed over, and he was still in 
Sienna, and seemed loath to leave. He associated mostly with 
the ecclesiastics to whom he had brought letters of introduction, 
for he was more anxious at first to become acquainted with the 
country and its treasures of art and literature than to make 
many acquaintances. He kept himself so close and studious 
that he met with no adventures such as most travellers, especi¬ 
ally those who abandon themselves to the dissolute courses of 
the country, meet with,—courses which were said at that time 
to be able to make a devil out of a saint. He saw nothing of 
the religious system but what was excellent and delightful, see¬ 
ing everything through the medium of his friends. He read all 
the Italian literature that was considered necessary for a gentle¬ 
man to be acquainted with; and though the learning of the 
Fathers was not what it had been a century ago, he still found 


A ROMANCE. 


CIIAl>. XXI.] 


211 


several to whom he could talk of his favourite Lucretius and of 
the divine lessons of Plato. 

When he had spent some time in this way in Italy, and 
considered himself fitted to associate with the inhabitants gene-, 
rally, the Benedictines took Inglesant to visit the family of 
Cardinal Chigi, who w^as afterwards Pope, and who was a native 
of Sienna. The Cardinal himself was in Rome, but his brother, 
Don Mario, received Inglesant politely, and introduced him to 
his son, Don Flavio, and to two of his nephews. With one of 
these, Don Agostiiio di Chigi, Inglesant became very intimate, 
and spent much of his time at his house. In this family he 
learnt much of the state of parties in Rome, and was advised 
in what way to comport himself when he should come there. 
The Cardinal Panzirollo, who with the Cardinal-Patron (Pam- 
philio) had lately been in great esteem, had just died, having 
weakened his health by his continued application to business, 
and the Pope had appointed Cardinal Chigi his successor as first 
Secretary of State. The Pope’s sister-in-law, Donna Olympia 
Maldachini, was supposed to be banished, but many thought this 
was only a political retreat, and that she still directed the afhiirs 
of the Papacy. At any rate she soon returned to Rome and to 
power. This extraordinary woman, whose loves and intrigues 
were enacted on the stage in Protestant countries, was the 
sister-in-law of the Pope, and was said to live with him in 
criminal correspondence, and to have charmed him by some secret 
incantation—the incantation of a strong woman over a weak 
and criminal man. For a long time she had abused her author¬ 
ity in the most scandalous manner, and exerted her unbounded 
ascendency over the Pope to gratify her avarice and ambition, 
which were as unbounded as her power. She disposed of all 
benefices, which she kept vacant till she was fully informed of 
their value; she exacted a third of the entire value of all offices, 
receiving twelve years’ value for an office for life. She gave 
audience upon public affairs, enacted new laws, abrogated those 
of former Popes, and sat in council with the Pope with bundles 
of memorials in her hands. Severe satires were daily pasted on 
the statue of Pasquin at Rome; yet it seemed so incredible that 
Cardinal Panzirollo, backed though he was by the Cardinal- 
Nephew, should be able to overthrow the power of this woman 
by a representation he was said to have made to the Pope, 
that when Innocent at length with great reluctance banished 


212 JOHN INGLESANT; [CIIAP. XXI. 

Olympin.. most persons supposed it was only a temporary piece of 
policy. 

The Chigi were at this time living in Sienna, in great 
simplicity, at their house in the Strada Romana, and in one or 
two small villas in the neighbourhood; but they were of an 
ancient and noble family of this place, and were held in great 
esteem, and were all of them men of refinement and carefully 
educated. They had made considerable figure in Rome during 
the Pontificate of Julius II.; but afterwards meeting with mis¬ 
fortunes, were obliged to return to Sienna, where they had 
continued to reside ever since. At this time there was no idea 
that the Cardinal of this house would be the next Pope, and 
though well acquainted with the politics of Rome, the family 
occupied themselves mostly with other and more innocent 
amusements—in the arrangement of their gardens and estates, 
in the duties of hospitality, and in artistic, literary, and anti¬ 
quarian pursuits. The University and College of Sienna had 
produced many excellent scholars and several Popes, and the 
city itself was full of remains of antique art, and was adorned 
with many modern works of great beauty—the productions of 
that school which takes its name from the town. Among such 
scenes as these, and with such companions, Inglesant’s time 
passed so pleasantly that he was in no hurry to go on to Rome. 

The country about the city was celebrated for hunting, and 
the wild boar and the stag afforded excellent and exciting, if 
sometimes dangerous sport. Amid the beautiful valleys, rich 
with vineyards, and overlooked by rocky hills and castled 
summits, were scenes fitted both for pleasure and sport; and 
the hunting gave place, often and in a moment, to al fresco 
banquets, and conversations and pleasant dalliance with the 
ladies, by the cool shade near some fountain, or under some 
over-arching rock. Under the influence of these occupations, so 
various and so attractive both to the mind and body, and 
thanks to so many novel objects and continual change of scene, 
Inglesant’s health rapidly improved, and his mind recovered 
much of the calm and cheerfulness which were natural to it. 
He thought little of the Italian, and the terrible thoughts with 
which he had connected him were for the time almost forgotten, 
though, from time to time, when any accident recalled the 
circumstances to his recollection, they retmmed upon his spirits 
with a melancholy effect. 


CHAP. XXI.] 


A ROIMANCE. 


213 


The first time that these gloomy thoughts overpowered him 
since his arrival at Sienna was on the following occasion. He 
had been hunting with a party of fiiends in the valley of 
Montalcino one day in early autumn. The weather previously 
had been wet, and the rising sun had drawn upward masses of 
white vapour, which wreathed the green foliage and the vine 
slopes, wdiere the vintage was going on, and concealed from sight 
the hills on every side. ^ A pale golden light pervaded every 
place, and gave mystery and beauty to the meanest cottages 
and farm-sheds. The party, having missed the stag, stopped at 
a small osteria at the foot of a sloping hill, and Inglesant and 
another gentleman wandered up into the vineyard that sloped 
upwards behind the house. As they went up, the vines became 
gradually visible out of the silvery mist, and figm-es of peasant 
men and women moved about—vague and half-hidden until 
they were close to them, pigeons and doves flew in and out. 
Inglesant’s friend stopped to speak to some of the peasant girls, 
but Inglesant himself, tempted by the pleasing mystery that 
the mountain slope—apparently full of hidden and beautiful, 
life—presented, wandered on, gradually climbing higher and 
higher, till he had left the vintage far below him, and heard no 
sound but that of the grasshoppers among the grass and the 
olive trees, and the distant laugh of the villagers, or now and 
then the music of a hunting horn which one of the party below 
was blowing for his own amusement. The mist was now so 
thick that he could see nothing, and it was by chance that he 
even kept the ascending path. The hill was rocky here and 
there, but for the most part was covered with short grass, 
cropped by the goats which Inglesant startled as he came 
unexpectedly upon them in the mist. Suddenly, after some 
quarter of an hour’s climbing, he came out of the mist in a 
moment, and stood under a perfectly clear sky upon the summit 
of the hill. The blue vault stretched above him without a 
cloud, all alight with the morning sun; at his feet the grassy 
hill-top sparkling in dew, not yet dried up, and vocal with 
grasshoppers, not yet silenced by the heat. The hill-top rose 
like an island out of a sea of vapour, seething and rolling round 
in misty waves, and lighted Avith prismatic colours of every hue. 
Out of this sea, here and there, other hill-tops, on which goats 
were browsing, lay beneath the serene heaven; and rocky 
p .ints and summits, far higher tliaii these, reflected back tlie 


214 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap. XXI. 


snn. He would have seemed to stand above all human conver¬ 
sation and walks of men if every now and then some break in 
the mist had not taken place, opening glimpses of landscapes 
and villages far below; and also the sound of bells, and the 
music of the horn, came up fitfully through the mist. Why, he 
did not know, but as he gazed on this, the most Avonderfid and 
beautiful sight he had ever seen, the recollection of Serenus de 
Cressy returned upon his mind with intense vividness ; and the 
contrast between the life he was leading in Italy, amid every 
delight of mind and sense, and the life the Benedictine had 
offered him in vain, smote upon his conscience with terrilde 
force. Upon the lonely mountain top, beneath the serene 
silence, he threw himself upon the tirrf, and, overwhelmed with 
a sudden passion, repented that he had been born. Amid the 
extraordinary loveliness, the most gloomy thoughts took posses¬ 
sion of him, and the fiend seemed to stand upon the smiling 
mount and claim him for himself. So palpably did the con¬ 
sciousness of his choice, worldly as he thouglit it, cause the 
presence of evil to appear, that in that heavenly solitude he 
looked round for the murderer of his brother. The moment 
appeared to him, for the instant, to be the one appointed for 
the consummation of his guilt. The horn below sounding the 
recall drew his mind out of this terrible reverie, and he came 
down the hill, from which the mist was gradually clearing, as 
in a dream. He rejoined his^ company, who remarked the wild 
expression of his face. 

His old disease, in fact, never entirely left him; he walked 
often as in a dream, and when the fit was upon him could never 
discern the real and the unreal. He knew tliat terrible feeling 
when the world and all its objects are slipping away, when tlie 
brain reels, and seems only to be kept fixed and steady by a 
violent exertion of the will; and the mind is confused and 
perplexed with thoughts which it cannot grasp, and is full of 
fancies of vague duties and acts which it cannot perform, though 
it is convinced that they are all important to be done. 

The Chigi family knew of Inglesant’s past life, and of his 
acquaintance with the Archbishop of Fermo, the Pope’s Nuncio, 
and they advised him to make the acquaintance of his brother, 
the Cardinal Rinuccini, before going to Rome. 

“ If you go to Rome in his train, or have him for a patron 
on your arrival, you will start in a much better position than 


CHAP. XXI. t 


A ROMANCE. 


215 


if you enter the city an entire stranger,—and the present is not 
a very favourable time for going to Eome. The Pope is not 
expected to live very long. Donna Olympia and the Pamphili, 
or pretended Pamphili (for the Cardinal-Nephew is not a Pain- 
phili at all), are si'Ciiring what they can, using every moment to 
enrich themselves while they have the power. The moment 
the Pope dies they fall, and with them all who have been con¬ 
nected with them. It is therefore useless to go to Rome at 
present, except as a private person to see the city, and this 
you can do better in the suite of the Cardinal than in any other 
way. You may wonder that we do not offer to introduce you to 
our uncle the Cardinal Chigi; but we had rather that you should 
come to Rome at first under the patronage of another. You 
will understand more of our reasons before long; meanwhile, 
we will write to our uncle respecting you, and you may be sure 
that he will promote your interests as much as is in his power.” 

The Cardinal Rinuccini was at that time believed to be at 
his own villa, situated in a village some distance from Florence 
to the north, and Don Agostino offered to accompany Inglesant 
so far on his journey. 

This ride, though a short one, was very pleasant, and 
endeared the two men to each other more than ever. They 
travelled simply, with a very small train, and did not hurry 
themselves on the route. Indeed, they travelled so leisurely 
that they were very nearly being too late for their purpose. 
On their arrival at the last stage before reaching Florence, they 
stopped for the night at a small osteria, and had no sooner 
taken up their (quarters than a large train arrived at the inn, 
and on their inquiry they were informed it was the Cardinal 
Rinuccini himself on his way to Rome. They immediately 
sent their names to his Eminence, saying they had been coming 
to pay their respects to him, and offering to resign their apart¬ 
ment, which was the best in the house. The Cardinal, who 
travelled in great state, with his four-post bed and furniture of 
all kinds with him, returned a message that he could not disturb 
them in their room ; that he remembered Mr. Iiiglesant’s name 
in some letters from his brother; and that he should be 
honoured by their company to rmpper. 

The best that the village could afford was placed on the. 
Car(liii:d’s table, and their host entertained the two young men 
with great courtesy. 


216 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap. XXI- 


He was descended from a noble family in Florence, which 
boasted among its members Octavio Rinuccini the poet, who 
came to Paris ii> the suite of Marie de Medicis, and is said by 
some to have been the inventor of the Opera, Besides the 
Pope’s Legate another brother of the Cardinal’s, Thomas Battista 
Binuccini, was Great Chamberlain to the Grand Duke of Tuscany. 
All the brothers had been carefully educated, and were men of 
literary tastes; but while the Archbishop had devoted himself 
mostly to politics, the Cardinal had confined himself almost 
entirely to literary pursuits. He owed his Cardinal’s hat to 
the Grand Duke, who was extremely pai’tial to him and pro¬ 
moted his interests in every way. He was a man of profound 
learning, and an enthusiastic admirer of antiquity, but was also 
an acute logician and theologian,- and perfectly well read in 
Church histoiy, and in the controversy of the century, both in 
theology and philosophy. Before the end of supper Inglesant 
found that he was acquainted with the writings of Hobbes, 
whom he had met in Italy, and of Avhom he inquired with 
interest, as soon as he found Inglesant had been acquainted 
with him. 

The following morning the Cardinal expressed his sorrow 
that the business which took him to Rome was of so important 
a nature that it obliged him to proceed without delay. He 
approved of the advice that Inglesant had already received, and 
recommended him to proceed to Florence, with Don Agostino, 
as he was so near ; so that he might not have his jom’iiey for 
nothing, and might see the city under very favourable circum¬ 
stances. Inglesant Avas the more ready to agree to this as he 
wished to see as much of Italy as he could, unshackled by the 
company of the great, Avhich, in the uncertain state of health 
both of his body and mind, Avas inexpressibly burdensome to 
him. He had already seen in this last journey a great deal of 
the distress and bad government which prevailed everywhere; 
and he Avished to make himself acquainted, in some measure, 
with the causes of this distress before going to Rome. As he 
rode through the beautiful plains he had been astonished at the 
feAv inhabitants, and at the wretchedness of the feAv. Italy 
had suffered greatly in her commerce by the introduction of 
Indian silks into- Europe. Some of her most flourishing cities 
had been depopulated, their nobles ruined; and long streets of 
neglected palaces, deserted and left in magnificent decay, pre* 


CHA.P. XXI.] 


A ROMANCE. 


217 


sented a melancholy though romantic spectacle. But bad 
government, and the oppression and waste caused by the 
accumulated "wealth and idleness of the innumerable religious 
orders, had more to do In ruining the prosperity of the country 
than any commercial changes; and proofs of this fact met the 
traveller’s eye on every hand. 

It seemed to Inglesant that it was very necessary that he 
should satisfy himself upon some of these points before becoming 
involved in any political action in the country; and he shrank 
from entering Rome at present, and from attaching himself to 
any great man or any party. In a country where the least false 
step is fatal, and may plunge a man in irretrievable ruin, or 
consign him to the dungeons of the Holy Office, it is certainly 
prudent in a stranger to be wary of his first steps. Having 
communicated these resolutions to his friend, the two young 
men, on their arrival at Florence, took lodgings privately in the 
Piazza del Spirito Santo; and occupied their time for some 
days in viewing the city, and visiting the churches and museums, 
as though they had been simply travellers from curiosity. 

Inglesant believed the Italian to be in Rome, which was a 
farther reason for delaying his journey there. He believed that 
he was going to engage in some terrible conflict, and he wished 
to prepare himself by an acquaintance with every form of life 
in this strange country. The singular scenes that strike a 
stranger in Italy—the religious processions, the character and 
habits of the poorer classes, their ideas of moral obligation, their 
ecclesiastical and legal government—all appeared to him of 
importance to his future fate. 

As he was perfectly unacquainted with the person of his 
enemy, there was a sort of vague expectation—not to say dread 
—always present to his mind; for, though he fancied that it 
would be in Rome that he should find the Italian, yet it was 
not at all impossible that at any moment—it might be in 
Florence, or in the open country—he might be the object of a 
murdeijus attack. His person was doubtless known to the 
mm-derer of his brother, and he thus walked everywhere in the 
full light, while his enemy was hidden in the dark. 

Tliese ideas were seldom absent from his mind, and the 
image of the murderer was almost constantly before his eyes. 
Often, as some marked figure crossed his path, he started and 
watched the retreating form, wondering whether the object of 


218 


JOHN INGLESANT ; [OHAP. XXI. 

liis morbid dread was before him. Often, as the imcovered 
corpse was borne along the streets, the thought struck him that 
perhaps his fear and his search were alike needless, and that 
before him on the bier, harmless and streAvn with flowers, lay 
his terrible foe. These thoughts natiiially prevented his engag¬ 
ing unrestrainedly in the pursuits of his age and rank, and he 
often let Don Agostiiio go alone into the gay society which was 
open to them in Florence. 

In pursuit of his intention Inglesant took every opportunity, 
without incurring remark, of associating with the lower orders, 
and learning their habits, traditions, and tone of thought. He 
chose streets which led through the poorer parts of the town in 
passing from one part to another, and in this way, and in the 
course of his visits to diflerent churches and religious houses, he 
was able to converse with the common people without attracting 
attention. In excursions into the country, whether on parties 
of pleasure or for sport, he was also able to throw himself in 
the same way among the peasantry. Under the pretence of 
sliooting quails lie passed several days in more than one 
country village, and had become acquainted with several of 
the cur^s, from whom he gained much information respecting 
the habits of the people, and of their ideas of crime and of lawful 
revenge. 

One of these cur^s—a man of penetration and intellect— 
strongly advised him to see Venice before he went to Rome, 

“ Venice,” he said to him, “is the sink of all wickedness, 
and as such it is desirable that you should see the people there, 
and mix with them; besides, as such, it is not at all unlikely 
that the man you seek may be found there.” 

“What is the cause of this wickedness 1” asked Inglesant. 

“ There are several causes,” replied the priest. “ One is 
that the Holy Oflice there is under the control of the State, and 
is therefore almost powerless. Wickedness and license of all 
kinds are therefore unrestrained.” 

Inglesant mentioned this advi(!e to Don Agostino, and his 
desire to proceed to Venice; but as the other was umvilling to 
leave Florence till the termination of the Carnival, which was 
noAV approaching, he was obliged to postpone his intention for 
some weeks. 

On one of the opening days of the Carnival, Inglesant had 
accompanied Don Agostino to a magnificent supper given by the 


A ROMANCE. 


219 


CHAP. XXI.] 

Grand Duke at his vil. a and gardens at the Poggia Iniperiale 
some distance outside *:he Romana gate. 

Inglesant had succeeded in throwing off for a time his 
gloomy thoughts, and had taken his share m the gaiety of the 
festival; but the effort and the excitement had produced a 
reaction, and towards morning he had succeeded in detaching 
himself from the company, many of whom—the banquet being 
over—were strolling in the lovely gardens in the cool air which 
preceded the dawn, and he returned alone to the city. As this 
was his frequent custom, his absence did not surprise Don 
Agostino, who scarcely noticed his friend’s eccentricities. 

When Inglesant reached Florence, the sun had scarcely 
risen, and in the udraculously clear and solemn light the count¬ 
less pinnacles and marble fronts of the wonderful city roie with 
sharp colour and outline into the sky. It lay with the country 
round it studded with tlie lines of cypress and encompassed by 
the massy hills—silent as the grave, and lovely as paradise; 
and ever and anon, as it lay in the morning light, a breeze from 
the mountains passed over it, rustling against the marble faQades 
and through the beli'ries of its towers, like the whisper of a God. 
Aow and again, clear and sharp in the liquid air, the musical 
bells of the Campanili rang out the time. The cool expanse of 
the gardens, the country walk, the pure air, and the silent city, 
seemed to him to chide and reja’ove the license and gaiety of 
the night. Excited by the events of the Carnival, his mind 
and imagination were in that state in which, from the inward 
fancy, phantoms are projected upon the real stage of life, and, 
playing their fantastic parts, react upon the excited sense, pro¬ 
ducing conduct which in turn is real in its result. 

As Inglesant entered the city and turned into one of the 
narrow streets leading up from the Arno, the market people 
were already entering by the gates, and thronging up with their 
wares to the Piazze and the markets. Carpenters were already 
at work on the scaffolds and other preparations for the cmiclud- 
ing festivals of the Carnival; but all these people, and all 
their actions, and even the sounds that they produced, wore 
that unreal and unsubstantial aspect which the very early 
morning light casts upon everything. 

As Inglesant ascended the narrow street, between the white 
stone houses which set off the brilliant blue above, several 
porters and countrywomen, carrying huge baskets and heaps of 


220 


JOHN INGLESANT ; 


[chap. XXI. 


country produce, ascended witli him, or passed him as he loitered 
along, and other more idle and equivocal persons, who were just 
awake, looked out upon him from doorways and corners as he 
passed. He had on a gala dress of silk, somewhat disordered 
by the night and by his walk, and must have ap})eared a suif- 
able object for the lawless attempts of the ladroni of a great 
city; but his appearance was probably not sufficiently helpless 
to encourage attack. 

Half-way up the street, at the corner of a house, stood an 
image of the Virgin, round which the villagers stopped for a 
moment, as much to rest as to pay their devotions. As Ingle- 
saiit stopped also, he noticed an old man of a wretched and 
abject demeanour, leaning against the wall of the house, as 
though scarcely able to stand, and looking eagerly at some of 
the ])rovisions which were carried past him. True to his custom, 
Inglesant—when he had given him some small coin as an alms 
—began to speak to him. 

“ You liave carried many such loads as these, father, I doubt 
not, in your time, though it must be a light one now.” 

“ I am past carrying even myself,” said the other, in a weak 
and whining voice; “ but I have not carried loads all my life, 
I have kept a shop on the Goldsmith’s Bridge, and have lived 
at my ease. How I have nothing left me but the sun—the 
sun and the cool shade.” 

“Yours is a hard fate.” 

“ It is a hard and miserable world, and yet I love it. It 
has done me nothing but evil, and yet I watch it and seek out 
w’hat it does, and listen to what goes on, just as if I thought to 
hear of any good fortune likely to come to me. Foolish old 
man that I am ! What is it to me what people say or do, or 
who dies, or who is married ? and why should I come out here 
to see the market people pass, and climb this street to hear of 
the murder that ^vas done here last night, and look at the body 
that lies in the room above V’ 

“What murder?” said Inglesant. “Who wms murdered, 
and by whom ?” 

“He is a foreigner; they say an Inglese—a traveller here 
merely. Who murdered him I know not, though they do 'say 
that too.” 

“Where is the body?” said Inglesant. “Let us go up.” 
And he gave the old man another small coin. 


CHAP. XXI.] 


A ROMANCE. 


221 


The old man looked at him for a moment with a peculiar 
expression. 

“ Better not, Signore,” he said, “better go home.” 

, “ Do not fear for me,” said Inglesant; “ I bear a charmed 
life; no steel can touch me, nor any bullet hurt me, till my 
hour comes; and my hour is not yet.” 

The old man led the way to an open door, carved with 
tracery and foliaged work, and they ascended a flight of stairs. 
It was one of those houses, so common in Italian towns, whose 
plain and massive exterior, pierced with few and narrow windows, 
gives no idea of the size and splendour of the rooms within. 
When they reached the top of the stairs, Inglesant saw that 
the house had once, and probably not long before, been the 
residence of some person of wealth. They passed through 
several rooms with carved chimney-pieces and cornices, and here 
and there even some massive piece of furniture still remained. 
From the windows that opened on the inner side Inglesant 
could see the tall cypresses of a garden, and hear the splash of 
fountains. But the house had fallen from its high estate, and 
was now evidently used for the vilest purposes. After passing 
two or three rooms, they reached an upper hall or dining-room 
of considerable length, and painted in fresco aj^parently of some 
merit. A row of windows on the left opened on the garden, 
from which the sound of voices and laughter came up. 

The room was bare of furniture, except towards the upper 
end, where was a small and shattered table, upon which the 
body of the murdered man was laid. Inglesant went up and 
stood by its side. 

There was no doubt whose countryman he had been. The 
fair English boy, scarcely bordering upon manhood—the heir, 
probably, of bright hopes—travelling with a careless or incom¬ 
petent tutor, lay upon the small table,- his long hair glistening 
in the sunlight, his face peaceful and smiling as in sleep. The 
fatal rapier thrust, marked by the stain upon the clothes, was 
the sole sign that his mother—waking up probably at that 
moment in distant England, with his image in her heart—was 
bereaved for ever of her boy. Inglesant stood silent a few 
moments, looking sadly down ; that other terrible figure, upon 
the white hearthstone, was so constantly in his mind, that this 
one, so like it, scarcely could be said to recall the image of his 
murdered brother j but the whole scene certainly strengthened 


222 


JOHN INGLESANT ; 


[chap. XXI. 


his morbid fancy, and it seemed to him that he was on the foot¬ 
steps of the murderer, and that his fate was drawing near. ^ 

“His steps are still in blood,” he said aloud; “and it is 
warm ; he cannot be far off.” 

He turned, as he spoke, to look for the old man, but he was 
gone, and in his place a ghastly figure met Iiiglesant’s glance. 

Standing about three feet from the table, a little behind 
Inglesant, and also looking fixedly at the murdered boy, was 
the figure of a corpse. The face was thin and fearfully white, 
and the whole figure vras wrapped and swathed in grave-clothes, 
somewhat disordered and loosened, so as to give play to the 
limbs. This form took no notice of the other’s presence, but 
continued to gaze at the body with its pallid ghastly face. 

Inglesant scarcely started. Nothing could seem more 
strange and unreal to him. than what was passing on every 
side. That the dead should return and stand by him seemed 
to him not more fearful and unreal than all the rest. 

Suddenly the corpse turned its eyes upon Inglesant, and 
regarded him with a fixed and piercing glance, 

“ You spoke of the author of this deed as though you knew 
him,” it Siud. 

“ I am on the track of a murderer, and my fate is urging 
me on. It seems to me that I see his bloody steps.” 

“ This was no murder,” said the corpse, in an irritated and 
impatient voice. “ It was a chance melde, and an unfortunate 
and unhappy thrust; we do not even know the name of the 
man who lies there. Are you the avenger of blood, that you 
see murder at every step?” 

“ I am in truth the avenger of blood,” said Inglesant in a 
low and melancholy voice; “ would I were not.” 

The corpse continued to look at Inglesant fixedly, and would 
have spoken, but the voices which had been heard in the garden 
now seemed to come nearer, and hurried steps approached the 
room. The laughter that Inglesant had heard was stilled, and 
deep and solemn voices strove together, and one above the rest 
said, “Bring up the murderer.” 

The corpse turned round impatiently, and the next moment 
from a small door, which opened on a covered balcony and out¬ 
side staircase to the garden, there came hurriedly in a troop of 
the most strange and fantastic figures that the eye could rest 
upon. Angels and demons, and savage men in lions’ skins, 


A ROMANCE. 


223 


CHAP. XXI.] 

and men with the heads of beasts and birds, swarmed tumultu¬ 
ously in, dragging with them an unfortunate being in his 
night-clothes, and apparently just out of bed, whom thcj'- urged 
on with blows. This man, who was only half-awake, was 
evidently in the extremity of terror, and looked upon himself 
as already in the place of eternal torment. Tie addressed now 
one and now another of his tormentors, as well as he could find 
breath, in the most abject terms, endeavouring, in the most 
ludicrous manner, to choose the titles and epithets to address 
them most in accordance vdth the individual appearance that 
the spectre he entreated wore to his dazzled eyes—whether a 
demon or an angel, a savage or a man-beast. When he saw 
the murdered man, and the terrible figure that stood by Ingle- 
sant, he nearly fainted with terror; but, on many voices 
demanding loudly that he should be brought in contact wdth 
the body of his victim, he recovered a little, and recognizing in 
Inglesaut, at least, a being of an earthly si)here, and by his 
dress a man of rank, he burnt from his tormentors, and throw¬ 
ing himself at his feet, he entreated his protection, assiuing 
him that he had been guilty of no mmder, having just been 
dragged from a sound sleep, and being even ignorant that a 
murder had been committed. 

Inglesant took little notice of him, but the corpse interposed 
between the man and the fantastic crew. It was still apparently 
in a very bad himioiu*, especially with Inglesant, and said 
imperiously,—“ We have enough and too much of this foolery. 
Have not some of you done enough mischief for one night 1 
This gentleman says he is on the track of a murderer, and will 
have it that he sees his traces in this unfoi tunate affair.” 

At these words the masquers crowded round Inglesant with 
wild and threatening gesture^!, apparently half earnest and half 
the result of wine, and as many of them were armed with great 
clubs, the consequences might have seemed doubtful to one 
whose feelings were less excited than Inglesant’s were. 

He, however, as though the proceeding were a matter of 
course, merely took off his hat, and addressed the others in 
explanation. 

“ I am indeed in pursuit of a murderer, the murderer of my 
brother—a gallant and noble gentleman, who was slain foully 
in cold blood. The murderer was an Italian, his name MalvoltL 
Do any of you, signori, happen to liave heard of such a man?” 


224 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap. XXI. 


There was a pause after this singular address, but the next 
moment a demon of terrific aspect forced his way to the front, 
saying in a tone of drunken consequence,— 

“ I knew him formerly at Lucca; he was well born and my 
friend.” 

“ He was, and is, a scelerat and a coward,” said Inglesant 
fiercely. “ It would be well to be more careful of your com¬ 
pany, sir.” 

“Have I not said he was my friend, sirl” cried the demon, 
furious with passion. “ Who will lend me a rapier 1” 

A silent and melancholy person, with the head of an owl, 
who had several under his arm, immediately tendered him one 
wdth a low bow, and the masquers fell back in a circle, while 
the demon, drawing his weapon, threw himself into an attitude 
and attacked Inglesant, who, after looking at him for a moment, 
also drew his rapier and stood upon his guard. It soon appeared 
that the demon was a very moderate fencer; in less than a 
minute his guard w^as entered by Inglesant’s irresistible tierce, 
and he would have been infallibly run through the body had he 
not saved himself by rolling ignominiously on the ground. 

This incident appeared to restore the corpse to good humour; 
'it laughed, and turning to the masquers said,— 

“ Gentlemen, let me beg of you to disperse as quickly as 
possible before the day is any farther advanced. You know of 
the rendezvous at one o’clock. I will see the authorities as to 
this unhappy affair. Sir,” he continued, turning to Inglesant, 
“ you are, I believe, the friend of Don Agostino di Chigi, whom 
he has been introducing into Florentine society; if it wdli amuse 
you to see a frolic of the Carnival carried out, of which this is 
only the somewdiat unfortunate rehearsal, and wdll meet me 
this afternoon at two o’clock, at the Great Church in the Via 
Larga, I shall be happy to do my best to entertain you; a 
simple domino will suffice. I am the Count Capece.” 

Inglesant gave his name in retium. He apologized for not 
accepting the Count’s courtesy, on the plea of ill-health, but 
assiued him he w^ould take advantage of his ofier to cultivate 
his acquaintance. They left the house together, the Count 
covering himself with a cloak, and Inglesant accompanied him 
to the office of police, from whence he went to his lodging and 
to his bed. 

He arose early in the afternoon, and remembering the 


CHAP. XXI.] 


A ROMANCE. 


225 


invitation he had received, he went out into the Via Larga. 
The streets formed a strange contrast to the stillness and calm 
of the cool morning. The afternoon was hot, and the city- 
crowded with people of every class and rank. The balconies 
and windows of the principal streets were full of ladies and 
children; trophies and embroideries hung from the houses and 
crossed the street. Strings of carriages and country carts, 
dressed with flowers and branches of trees, paraded the streets. 
Every variety of fantastic and grotesque costume, and every 
shade of colour, filled and confused the eye. Music, laughter, 
and loud talking filled the ear. Inglesant, from his simple 
costume and grave demeanour, became the butt of several noisy 
parties; but used as he was to great crowds, and to the con¬ 
fused revelries of Courts, he was able to disentangle himself 
with mutual good-humour. He recognized his friends of the 
morning, who were performing a kind of comedy on a country 
cart, arched with boughs, in imitation of the oldest form of the 
itinerant theatre. He was recognized by them also, for, in a 
pause of the performance, as he was mo\dng down a bye-street, 
he was accosted by one of the company, enveloped in a large 
cloak. He had no difficulty in recognizing beneath this con¬ 
cealment his antagonist of the morning, who still supported his 
character of demon. 

“I offer you my apologies for the occurrences of this morning, 
signore,” he said, “having been informed by my friends more 
closely concerning them than I can myself recollect. I am also 
deeply interested in the person of whom you spoke, who 
formerly was a friend of mine ; and I must also have been 
acquainted with the signore, your brother, of which I am the 
more certain as your appearance every moment recalls him more 
and more to my mind. I should esteem it a great favour to be 
allowed to speak at large with you on these matters. If you 
will allow me to pay my respects at your lodgings, I will con¬ 
duct you to my father’s house, il Conte Pericon di Visalvo, 
where I can show you many things which may be of interest to 
you respecting the man whom I understand you seek.” 

Inglesant replied that he should gladly avail himself of his 
society, and offered to come to the Count’s house early the next 
day. 

He found the house, a sombre plain one, in a quiet stieet, 
with a tall front pierced with few windows. At the low door 

Q 


226 JOHN INGLES ANT; [CHAP. XXI. 

hung a wine-flask, as a sign that wine was sold within; for the 
sale of wine by retail was confined to the gentry, the common 
people being only allowed to sell wholesale. The Count was 
the fortunate possessor of a very fine vineyard, which made his 
wine much in request, and Inglesant found the whole ground- 
floor of his house devoted to this retail traffic. Having inquired 
for the Count, he was led up the staircase into a vestibule, and 
from thence into the Count’s own room This was a large 
apartment with windows looking on to the court, with a suite 
of rooms opening beyond it. It was handsomely furnished, 
with several cages full of singing birds in the windows. Out¬ 
side, the walls of the houses forming the courtyard were covered 
with vines and creeping jessamine and other plants, and a 
fountain splashed in the centre of the court, which was covered 
with a coloured awning. 

The old Count received Inglesant politely. He was a tall, 
spare old man, with a reserved and dignified manner, more like 
that of a Spaniard than of an Italian. Rather to Inglesant’s 
surprise he introduced him to his daughter, on wdiom, as she 
sat near one of the windows, Inglesant’s eyes had been fixed 
from the moment he had entered the room. The Italians were 
so careful of the ladies of their families, and it was so unusual 
to allow strangers to see tliem,- that his surprise was not un¬ 
natural, especially as the young lady before him Avas remarkably 
beautiful. She was apparently very young, tall and dark-eyed, 
with a haughty and indifferent manner, which concentrated 
itself entirely upon her father. 

The Count noticed Inglesant’s surprise at the cordiality of 
his reception, and seemed to speak as if in explanation. 

“You are no stranger to us, signore,” he said; “my son 
has not only commended you to me, but your intimacy with 
Count Agostino has endeared you abeady to us who admire and 
love him.” 

As Agostino had told him the evening before that he kneAV 
little of these people, though he believed the old Count to be 
respectable, this rather increased Inglesant’s surprise; but he 
merely said that he Avas fortunate in possessing a friend Avhose 
favour procured him such advantages. 

“My son’s affairs,” continued the old man, “unavoidably 
took him abroad this morning, but I AAnit his return every 
moment.” 


CHAP. XXI.] 


A ROMANCE. 


227 


luglesant suspected that the Cavaliere, who appeared to 
him to be a complete debauchee, had not been at home at all 
that night; but if that were the case, when he entered the 
room a few moments afterwards, his manner was completely self- 
possessed and quiet, and showed no signs of a night of revelry. 

As soon as they were seated the Cavaliere began to explain 
to Inglesant that both his father and himself were anxious to 
see him, to confer respecting the unfortunate circumstances 
which, as they imagined, had brought him to Italy upon a 
mission which they assimed him was madly imprudent, 

“Our nation, signore,” said the Cavaliere, “is notorious for 
two passions—^jealousy and revenge. Both of these, combined 
with self-interest, induced Malvolti to commit the foul deed 
which he perpetrated upon your brother. While in Italy your 
brother crossed him in some of his amoims, and also resented 
some indiscretions, which the manners of our nation regard with 
tolerance, but wliich your discreeter countrymen resent with 
unappeasable disgust. Our people never forgive injuries; nay, 
they entail them on their posterity. We ourselves left our 
native city, Lucca, on account of one of these feuds, which 
made it unsafe for us to remain; and I could show you a gentle¬ 
man’s house in Lucca whose master has never set foot out of 
doors for nine years, nay, scarcely looked out of window, for 
fear of being shot by an antagonist who has several times 
planted ambushes to take away his life. It is considered a 
disgrace to a family that one of its members has forgiven an 
injury; and a mother will keep the bloody clothes of her mur¬ 
dered husband, to incite her young sons to acts of vengeance. 
You will see, signore, the evil which such ideas as these wind 
about our lives; and how unwise it must be in a stranger to 
involve himself needlessly in such an intrigue, in a foreign 
country, unknown and comparatively without friends. Italy 
swarms with bravoes hired to do the work of vengeance; mer¬ 
chants are assaulted in their warehouses in open day; in the 
public streets the highest personages in the land are not safe. 
What will be the fate then of a stranger whose death is neces¬ 
sary to the safety of an Italian 

“ I understand you, signore,” said Inglesant, “ and I thank 
you for your good-will, but you are somewhat mistaken. I am 
not seeMng the man of whom we speak, though, I confess, I 
came to Italy partly with the expectation of meeting him, wlien 


228 


JOHN 'INGLESANT ; 


[chap. XXI, 


it is tlie will of God, or the Avill of the Devil, whom He per¬ 
mits to influence the aflairs of men, that this man and I should 
meet. I shall not attempt to avoid the interview; it would 
he useless if I did. The result of that meeting who can tell! 
But as I said jTsterday to the Count Capece, till my hour 
comes I hear a charmed life that cannot be taken, and any 
result I regard with supreme indirference, if so he I may, by 
any means, escape in the end the snares of the Devil, who 
seeks to take me captive at his will.” 

The two gentlemen regarded Inglesant with profound aston¬ 
ishment as he uttered these words; and the young lady in the 
window raised her eyes towards him as he was speaking (he 
spoke very pure Italian) with some appearance of interest. 

After a pause Inglesant went on, “ I also venture to think, 
signore,” he said, “ that you are unaware of the position of tliis 
man, and of the condition to which his crimes have brought 
him. I am well informed from siu'e sources that he is without 
friends, and that his crimes have raised him more enemies in 
this country even than elsewhere ; so that he is afraid to appear 
openly, lest he fall a victim to his own countrymen. He is also 
in abject poverty, and is therefore to a great extent powerless 
to do evil.” 

The Cavaliere smiled. “ You do not altogether know this 
country, signore,” he said ; “ there are always so many different 
factions and interests at work that a daring useful man is never 
without patrons, w'ho will support and further his private 
interests in retium for the service he may render them; and 
(though you may not be fully aware of it) it is because it is 
notorious that you are yourself supported and protected by a 
most powerful and widely spread faction, that your position in 
this country is as assured and safe as it is.” 

His words certainly struck Inglesant. The idea that he 
was already a known and marked man in this wonderful country, 
and playing an acknowledged part in its fantastic drama, was 
new to him, and he remained silent. 

“ From all ordinary antagonists,” continued the Cavaliere, 
“this knowledge is sufficient to secure you; no man would 
wish, unless ruined and desperate, to draw on his head the 
swift and certain punishment which a hand raised against your 
life would be sure to invoke. But a reckless despairing man 
stops at nothing; and should you, by your presence even, 


CHAP. XXI.] 


A ROMANCE. 


229 


endanger this man’s standing in the favour of some new-found 
patron, or impede the success of some freshly planned scheme— 
perhaps the last hope of his ruined life—I would not buy your 
safety at an hom-’s rate.” 

While the Cavaliere was speaking it was evident that his 
sister was listening with great attention. The interest that 
she manifested, and the singular attraction that Ingiesant felt 
toAvards her, so occupied his thoughts that he could scarcely 
attend to Avhat the other was saying, though he continued 
speaking for some time. It • is possible that the Cavaliere 
noticed this, for Ingiesant was suddenly conscious that he was 
regarding him fixedly and with a peculiar expression. He 
apologized for his inattention on the ground of ill-health, and 
soon after took his leave, having invited the Cavaliere to visit 
him at his lodgings. 

As Ingiesant walked back through the streets of the city, 
he was perplexed at his own sensations, which appeared so 
different from any he had previously known. The attraction 
he experienced towards the lady he had just seen was quite 
different from the affection he had felt for Mary Collet. That 
was a sentiment which commended itself to his reason and 
his highest feelings. In her company he felt himself soothed, 
elevated above himself, safe from danger and from temptation. 
In this latter attraction he was conscious of a half-formed fear, 
of a sense of glamour and peril, and of an alluring force inde¬ 
pendent of his own free-will. The opinion he had formed of her 
brother’s character may have had something to do with these 
feelings, and the sense of perpetual danger and insecurity with 
which he walked this land of mystery and intrigue no doubt 
increased it. He half resolved not to visit the old nobleman 
again; but even while forming the resolution he knew that he 
should break it. 

The circumstances in which he was placed, indeed, almost 
precluded such a course. The very remarkable beauty of the 
young lady, and the extraordinary unreserve with which he had 
been introduced to her—unreserve so unusual in Italy—while 
it might increase the misgiving he felt, made it very difficult 
for him to decline the acquaintance. The girl’s beauty was of 
a kind unusual in Italy, though not unknoAvn there, her hair 
being of a light brown, contrasting with her magnificent eyes, 
which were of the true Italian splendour and brilliancy. She 


230 


JOHN INGLESANT ; 


[chap. XXL 


had doubtless been kept in the strictest seclusion, and Ingksant 
could only wonder what could have induced the old Count to 
depart from his usual caution. 

The next day, being Ash Wednesday, Inglesant was present 
at the Duomo at the ceremony of the day, when the vast con¬ 
gregation received the emblematic ashes upon their foreheads. 
The Cavaliere was also present with his sister, whose name 
Inglesant discovered to be Lauretta. Don Agostino, to whom 
Inglesant had related the adventure, and the acc^uaintance to 
which it had led, was inclined to suspect these people of some 
evil purpose, and made what incpiiries he could concerning 
them; but he could discover nothing to their discredit, further 
than that the Cavaliere was a well-known debauchee, and that 
he had been involved in some intrigue, in connection with some 
of the present Papal famil}’’, whicli had not proved successful. 
He was in consequence then in disgrace with Donna Olmypia 
and her faction,—a disappointment which it was said had 
rendered his fortunes very desperate, as he was very deeply 
involved in debts of all kinds. Don Agostino, the Carnival 
being over, was desirous of returning to Sienna, unless Inglesant 
made up his mind to go at once to Venice, in which case he 
offered to accompany him. His friend, however, did not appear 
at all desirous of quitting Florence, at any rate hastily, and 
Don Agostino left him and returned home, the two friends 
agTeeing to meet again before proceeding to Venice. 

His companion gone, Inglesant employed himself in frequent¬ 
ing all those Churches to which Lauretta was in the habit of 
resorting during the Holy Season; and as every facility appeared 
to be given diim by her friends, he became very intimate with 
her, and she on her part testified no disinclination to his society. 
It will probably occur to the reader that this conduct was not 
consistent with the cautious demeanour which Inglesant had 
resolved upon; but such resolutions have before now proved 
inefiectual under similar circumstances, and doubtless the like 
will occur again. Lauretta looked round as a matter of course, 
as she came out of the particular Church she had that day 
chosen, for the handsome cavalier who was certain to be ready 
to offer the drop of holy water; and more than one rival whom 
the beautiful devotee had attracted to the service, noticed with 
envy the kindly look of the masked eyes which acknowledged 
the courtesy; and, indeed, it is not often that ladies’ eyes have 


CHAP. XXI.] 


A ROMANCE. 


231 


rested upon a lover more attractive to a girl of a refined nature 
than did Lauretta’s when, in the dawn of the March mornings, 
she saw John Inglesant waiting for her on the marble steps. 
It is true that she thought the Cavaliere Inglese somewhat 
melancholy and sad, but her oAvn disposition was reserved and 
pensive ; and in her presence Inglesant’s melancholy was so far 
charmed away that it became only an added grace of sweetness 
of manner, and of tender deference and protection. The servant 
of the polished King of England, the companion of Falkland and 
of Caernarvon, the French Princess’s favourite page, trained in 
every art that makes life attractive, that makes life itself the 
finest art, with a memory and intellect stored with the poetry 
and learning of the antique world,—it would have been strange 
if, where once his fancy was touched, Inglesant had not made a 
finished and attractive lover. 

The familiar streets of Florence, the bridges or the walks 
by the Arno, assumed a new charm to the young girl, when she 
saw them in company with her pleasant and coimteous friend; 
and whether in the early morning it was a few spring flowers 
that he brought her, or a brilliant jewel that he placed upon 
her finger as he parted in the soft Italian night, it was the giver, 
and the grace with which the gift was made, that won the 
romantic fancy of the daughter of the South. Their talk was 
not of the kind that lovers often use. He would indeed begin 
with relating stories of the English Court, in the bright fleeting 
days before the war, of the courtly refined revels, of the stately 
dances and plays, and of the boating parties on the wooded 
Thames; but most often the narrative changed its tone instinct¬ 
ively, and went on to speak of sadder and higher things; of 
self-denial and devotion of ladies and children, who suffered for 
their King without complaint; of the Ferrars and their holy 
life; of the martyred Archbishop and of the King’s death ; and 
sometimes perhaps of some sight of battle and suffering the 
narrator himself had seen, as when the evening sun was shining 
upon the grassy slope of Newbury, and he knelt beside the dying 
Caernarvon, unmindful of the bullets that fell around. 

“ You have deserved well of the King,” he said; “ have you 
no request that I may make to him, nothing for your children, 
or your wife I ” 

And with his eyes fixed upon the western horizon the Earl 
replied,— 


232 JOHN INGLES ANT; [cHAP. XXL 

“No, I will go hence with no request upon my lips but to 
the King of kings.” 

How all this pleasant dalliance would have terminated, had 
it continued, we have no means of knowing, for a sudden and 
unexpected end was put to it, at any rate for a time. 

Easter was over, and the Cavaliere had invited Inglesant to 
join in a small party to spend a day or two at his vineyard and 
country house among the Apennines, assuring him that at that 
time of the year the valleys and hill-slopes were very delightfid. 

The evening before the day on which the little company was 
to start, Inglesant had an engagement at one of the theatres in 
Florence, where a comedy or pantomime was being performed. 
The comedies in Italy at this time were paltry in character in 
everything except the music, which was very good. Inglesant 
accompanied a Signore Gabriotto, a violin player, who was 
engaged at the theatre, and of whom Inglesant had taken 
lessons, and with whom he had become intimate. This man 
was not only an admirable performer on the violin, but was a 
man of cultivation and taste. He had given much study to the 
music of the ancients, and especially to their musical instruments, 
as they are to be seen in the hands of the Apollos, muses, fauns, 
satyrs, bacchanals, and shepherds of the classic sculptors. As 
they walked through the streets in the evening sunlight, he 
favoured his companion, whom he greatly admired as an excel¬ 
lent listener, with a long discourse on this subject, showing how 
useful such an inquiry was, not only to obtain a right notion 
of the ancient music, but also to help us to obtain pleasanter 
instruments if possible than those at present in use. 

“ Not, signore,” he said, “ that I think we have much to 
learn from the ancients; for if we are to judge their instruments 
by the appearance they make in marble, there is not one that is 
comparable to our violins; for they seem, as far as I can make 
out, all to have been played on either by the bare fingers or the 
plectrum, so that they could not add length to their notes, nor 
could they vary them by that insensible swelling and dying 
away of sound upon the same string which gives so w^onderful a 
sweetness to our modern music. And as far as I can see, their 
stringed instruments must have had very low and feeble voices 
from the small proportion of wood used (though it is difiicult 
to judge of this, seeing that all our examples are represented 
in marble), which would prevent the instruments containing 


I CHAP. XXI.] 


A ROSIANCE. 


233 


i sufficient air to render the strokes full or sonorous. Now my 
i violin,” continued the Italian with enthusiasm, “ does not speak 
j only with the strings, it speaks all over, as though it were a 
living creature that was all voice, or, as is really the case, as 
though it were full of sound.” 

“You have a wonderful advantage,” said Inglesant, “you 
Italians, that is, in the cultivation of the art of life; for you 
have the mibroken tradition, and habit and tone of mind, from 
the old world of pleasiu'e and art—a world that took the plea¬ 
sures of life boldly, and had no conscience to prevent its culti¬ 
vating and enjoying them to the full. But I must say that you 
have not, to my mind, improved diuing the lapse of centuries, 
nor is the comedy we shall see to-night what might be expected 
of a people who are the descendants of the old Italians who 
applauded Terence.” 

“ The comedy to-night,” said the Italian, “ would be nothing 
without the music, the acting is a mere pretence.” 

“ The comedy itself,” said Inglesant, “ would be intolerable 
but for the buffoons, and the people show their sense in de¬ 
manding that place shall be found in every piece for these 
worthies. The play itself is stilted and unreal, but there is 
always something of ii'ony and wit in these characters, which 
men have found full of satire and hiunoim for four thousand 
years: Harlequin the reckless fantastic youth, Pantaleone the 
poor old worn-out ‘ Senex,’ and Corviello the rogue. In their 
absurd impertinences, in their impossible combinations, in their 
mistakes and tumbles, in their falling over queens and runniiig 
up against monarchs, men have always seemed to see some care¬ 
less, light-hearted, half-indifferent sarcasm and satire upon their 
own existence.” 

When they reached the theatre, the slant rays of the setting 
sun were shining between the lofty houses, and many people 
were standing about the doors. Inglesant accompanied the 
violinist to the door of the play-house, and took his place near 
the orchestra, at either end of which were steps leading up on 
to the stage. The evening sunlight penetrated into the house 
through Venetian blinds, lighting up the fittings and the audi¬ 
ence with a sort of mystic haze. The sides of the stage were 
crowded with gentlemen, some standing, others sitting on small 
stools. Many of the audience were standing, the rest seated 
on benches. The part occupied in modern theatres by the boxes 



234 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap. XXI. 


was furnished with raised seats, on which ladies and people of 
distinction were accommodated. There was no gallery. 

As the first bars of the overture struck upon Inglesant’s ear, 
with a long-drawn tremor of the bass viols and a shrill plaintive 
note of the treble violins, an irresistible sense of loneliness and 
desolation and a strange awe crept over him and weighed down 
his spirits. As the fantastic music continued, in which gaiety 
and sadness were mysteriously mingled, the reverberation seemed 
to excite each moment a clearer perception of those paths of 
intrigue and of danger in which he seemed to walk. The 
uneasy sentiment which accompanied, he knew not why, his 
attachment to Lauretta, and the insidious friendship of the 
Cavaliere, the sense of insecurity which followed his footsteps 
in this land of dark and sinful deeds, passed before his mind. 
It seemed to his excited fancy at that moment that the end 
was drawing very near, and amid the fascination of the lovely 
music he seemed to await the note of the himtsman’s horn 
which would announce that the toils were set, and that the 
chase was up. From the kind of trance in which he stood he 
was aroused by hearing a voice, distinct to his ear and perfectly 
audible, though apparently at some considerable distance, say,— 

“ Who is that man by the cmtain, in black satin, with the 
Point de Venice lace 

And another voice, equally clear, answered, “ His name is 
Inglesant, an agent of the Society of the Gesu.” 

Inglesant tinned; but, amid the crowd of faces behind him, 
he could discern nothing that indicated the speakers, nor did 
any one else seem to have noticed anything unusual. The next 
moment the music ceased, and with a scream of laughter Harle¬ 
quin bounded on the stage, followed by Pantaleone in an eager 
and tottering step, and after them a wild rout of figures, of 
all orders and classes, who flitted across the stage amid the 
applause of the people, and suddenly disappeared, while Harle¬ 
quin and Pantaleone as suddenly reappearing, began a lively 
dialogue, accompanied by a quick movement of the violins. As 
Inglesant took his eyes off the stage for a moment, they fell on 
the figure of a man standing on the flight of steps at the farther 
end of the orchestra, who regarded him with a fixed and scruti¬ 
nizing gaze. It was a tall and dark man, whose expression 
would have been concealed from Inglesant but for the fiery bril¬ 
liancy of his eyes. Inglcsant’s glance met his as in a dream, 


CHAP. XXI.] 


A ROMANCE. 


235 


and remained fixed as tliongh fascinated, at which the gaze of 
the other became, if possible, more intense, as though he too 
were spell-bound and unable to turn away. At this moment 
the dialogue on the stage ceased, and a girl advanced to the 
footlights with a song, accompanied by the band in an air 
adapted from the overture, and containing a repetition of the 
opening bars. The association of sound broke the spell, and 
Inglesant turned his eyes upon the singer; when he looked 
again his strange examiner was gone. 

The girl who was singing was a Roman, reputed the best 
treble singer then in Italy. The sun by this time was set, and 
the short twilight over. The theatre was sparsely lighted by 
candles, nearly the whole of the available light being concen¬ 
trated upon the stage. This arrangement produced striking 
effects of light and shade, more pleasing than are the brilliantly 
lighted theatres of modern days. The figures on the stage came 
forward into full and clear view, and faded again into obscurity 
in a mysterious way very favourable to romantic illusion, and 
the theatrical arrangements were not seen too clearly. The 
house itself was shadowy and the audience unreal and unsub¬ 
stantial ; the whole scene wore an aspect of glamour and romance 
wanting at the present day. 

When the girl’s song was over there was a movement among 
the gentlemen on the stage, several coming down into the house. 
Inglesant took advantage of this, and went up on the stage, 
from which he might hope to see something of the stranger 
who had been watching him so closely, if he were still in the 
theatre. 

Several of the actors who were waiting for their tmm 
mingled with the gentlemen, talking to their acquaintance. 
The strange light thrown on the centre of the stage in which 
two or three figures were standing, the multitude of dark forms 
in the surrounding shadow, the dim recesses of the theatre 
itself full of figures, the exquisite music, now soft and plaintive, 
anon gay and dance-like, then solemn and melancholy, formed a 
singular and attractive whole. Lauretta had declined to come 
that night, but Inglesant thought it was not improbable that 
the Cavaliere would be there, and he was cmious to see whether 
he could detect him in company with the mysterious stranger. 
From the moment that he had heard the distant voice inquiring 
his name, the familiar idea had again occurred to his mind that 



236 


JOHN INGLESANT ; [cHAP. XXI. 

this could be none other than the murderer of his brother, of 
whom he was in search; but this thought had occurred so often, 
and in connection with so many persons, that had it not been 
for the fixed and peculiar glance with which the stranger had 
regarded him, he w^ould have thought little of it. He was, 
however, unable to distinguish either of the persons of whom 
he was in search from the crowd that filled the theatre; and 
his attention was so much diverted by the constantly changing 
scene before him that he soon ceased to attempt to do so. At 
that moment the opening movement of the overture was again 
repeated by the band, and was made the theme of an elaborate 
variation, in which the melancholy idea of the music was 
rendered in every variety of shade by the plaintive violins. 
Every phase of sorrow, every form and semblance of grief that 
Inglesant had ever known, seemed to float through his mind, 
in sympathy with the sounds- which, inarticulate to the ear, 
possessed a power stronger than that of language to the mental 
sense. The anticipation of coming evil naturally connected 
itself with the person of Lauretta, and he seemed to see her 
lying dead before him upon the lighted stage, or standing in an 
attitude of grief, looking at him with wistful eyes. This last 
image was so strongly presented to his imagination that it par¬ 
took almost of the character of an apparition; and before it the 
crowded theatre, the gaily dressed forms upon the stage, the 
fantastic actors, seemed to fade, and alone on the deserted 
boards the figure of Lauretta, as he had last seen it, slight and 
girl-like yet of noble bearing, stood gazing at him with wild 
and apprehensive eyes. Curiously too, as his fancy dwelt upon 
this figure, it saw in her hand a sealed letter fastened witli a 
peculiarly twisted cord. 

The burden of sorrow and of anticipated evil became at last 
too heavy to be borne, and Inglesant left the theatre and 
returned to his lodgings. But here he could not rest. Though 
he had no reason to visit the Count that night, and though it 
was scarcely seemly, indeed, that he should do so, yet, impelled 
by a restless discomfort which he sought to quiet, he wandered 
again into the streets, and found himself not unnaturally before 
the old nobleman’s dwelling. Once here, the impulse was too 
strong to be denied, and he knocked at the low sunken door. 
The house seemed strangely quiet and deserted, and it was 
some time before an old servant who belonged to the lower 


CHAP. XXII.] 


A ROMANCE. 


237 


part of the establishment, devoted to the sale of the wine, 
appeared at the wicket, and, on being assured whom it was 
who knocked at that unseasonable hour, opened the door. 

The house was empty, he averred. The family had sud¬ 
denly departed, whither he knew not. If the signore was 
pleased to go upstairs, he believed he woidd find some letters 
for him left by the Cavaliere. 

Inglesant followed the old man, who carried a common 
brass lamp, which cast an uncertain and flickering glare, the 
sense of evil growing stronger at every step he took. His guide 
led him into the room in which he had first seen Lauretta, 
which appeared bare and deserted, but showed no sign of hasty 
departure. Upon a marble table inlaid with coloured stones 
were two letters, both directed to Inglesant. The one was from 
the Cavaliere, excusing their departure on the ground of sudden 
business of the highest political importance, the other from 
Lauretta, written in a hasty trembling hand. It contained but 
a few lines—“that she was obliged to follow her father;” but 
Inglesant hesitated a moment before he broke the seal, for it 
was tied round with a curiously twisted cord of blue and yellow 
silk, as he had seen in the vision his excited fancy had created. 


CHAPTER XXIL 

Lauretta’s letter had informed Inglesant that she would 
endeavour to let him know where she was; and with that hope 
he w'as obliged to be content, as by no effort he could make 
could he discover any trace of the fugitives’ route. Florence, 
however, became distasteful to him, and he would have left it 
sooner but for an attack of fever which prostrated him for 
some time. Few foreigners were long in Italy, in those days, 
without suffering from the climate and the miasmas and un¬ 
healthy vapours, which, especially at night, w^ere so hurtful even 
to those accustomed to the country. In his illness Inglesant 
was carefully nursed by some of the Jesuit fiithers, and those 
whom they recommended; and it is possible that they took care 
that he should not be left too much to the care of the physicians, 
whose attentions, at that period at any rate, were so often fatal 
to their patients. In the course of a few weeks he was suffi- 


238 


JOHN INGLESANT ; 


[chap. XXIl 


ciently recovered to think of leaving Florence, and he despatched 
a messenger to Don Agostino, begging him to meet him at 
Lucca, where they might decide either to visit Venice or go on 
straight to Rome. It was.not without some lingering hope 
tliat he might find Lauretta in the town of her birth, that he 
set out for Lucca, but misfortune followed his path. It was 
reported that the plague had broken out in Florence, and 
travellers wlio were known to have come from thence were re¬ 
garded wuth great suspicion. Inglesant’s appearance, recently 
recovered from sickness, was not in his favour; and at Fucec- 
chio, a small town on the road to Lucca, he was arrested by the 
authorities, and confined by them in the pest-house for forty 
days. It was a building which had formerly been a gentleman’s 
house, and possessed a small garden surrounded by a high wall. 
In this dreary abode Inglesant passed many solitary days, the 
other inmates being three or four unfortunates like himself,— 
travellers on business through the country,—who, their affairs 
being injured by their detention, were melanchol}^ and despond¬ 
ent. lie was short of money, and for some time was unable 
to communicate with any of his friends either in Florence or 
Sienna. With nothing but his own misfortunes to brood upon, 
and vcith the apprehension of the future, which almost amounted 
to religious melancholy, frequently before his mind, it is sur¬ 
prising that he kept his reason. To add to his misfortunes, 
wdien the greater portion of the time fixed for liis detention 
was expired, one of the inmates of the pest-house suddenly 
died; and although the physicians pronounced his disease not 
to be the plague, yet the authorities decreed that all should 
remain another forty days within its dreary walls. The death 
of this person greatly affected Inglesant, as he ’was the only 
one of the inmates with whom he had contracted any intimacy. 

During the first part of his sojourn here, there was brought 
to the house, as an inmate, a wandering minstrel, who, the 
first evening of his stay, attracted the whole of the gloomy 
society around him by his playing. He played upon a small 
and curiously shaped instrument called a vielle, somewhat like 
a child’s toy, with four strings, and a kind of small wheel in¬ 
stead of a bow. It was commonly used by blind men and 
beggars in the streets, and was considered a contemptible in¬ 
strument, though some of these itim rant performers attained to 
such skill upon it that they could make their hearers laugh and 


CHAP. XXII.] 


A ROMANCE. 


239 


dance, and it was said even weep, as they stood around them 
in the crowded streets. Inglesant soon perceived that the inan 
was no contemptible musician, and after his performance was 
over he entered into conversation with him, asking him why he, 
who could play so well, was content with so poor an instru¬ 
ment. The man, who appeared to have a great deal of intelli¬ 
gence and humour, said that he was addicted to a wandering 
and unsettled life, among the poorer and disorderly classes in 
the low quarters of cities, in mountain villages, and in remote 
hosteh'ies and forest inns; that the possession of a valuable 
viol, or other instrument, even if he should practise sufficient 
self-denial to enable him to save money to purchase such a one, 
would be a constant anxiety to him, and a source of danger 
among the wild companions with whom he often associated. 
“ Besides, signore,” he said, “ I am attached to this poor little 
friend of mine, who will speak to me though to none else. I 
have learnt the secrets of its heart, and by wffiat means it may 
be made to discourse eloquently of human life. You may de¬ 
spise my instrument, but I can assure you it is far superior to 
the guitar, though that is so high-bred and genteel a gentleman, 
found in all romances and ladies’ bowers. For any music that 
depends upon the touch of a string, and is limited in the dura¬ 
tion of the distinct sounds, is far inferior to this little fellow’s 
voice.” 

“You seem trained to the profession of music,” said 
Inglesant. 

“I was serving-lad to an old musician in Rome, who not 
only played on several instruments, but gave a great deal of 
time to the study of the science of harmony, and of the mysteries 
of music. He was fond of me, and taught me the viol, as I 
was apt to learn.” 

“I have heard of musicians,” said Inglesant, “who have 
written on the philosophy of sound. He was doubtless one of 
them.” 

“There are things concerning musical instruments,” said 
the man, “very wonderful; such as the laws concerning the 
octaves of flutes, whidi, make them how you will, you can 
never alter, and which show how the principles of harmony 
prevail in the dead things of the world, which we think so 
blockish and stupid; and what is more wonderful still, the 
passions of men’s souls, which are so wild and untamable, aie 




240 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap. XXII. 


all ruled and kept in a strict measure and mean, for they are 
all concerned in and wrought upon by music. And what can 
be more wonderful than that a maestro in the art can take 
delight in sound, though he does not hear it; and when he 
looks at some black marks upon paper, he hears intellectually, 
and by the power of the soul alone*?” 

“ You speak so well of these things,” said Inglesant, “ that 
I wonder you are content to wander about the world at village 
fairs and country weddings, and do not rather establish yourself 
in some great town, where you might follow your genius and 
earn a competence and fame.” 

“ I have already told you,” replied the man, “ that I am 
wedded to this kind of life; and if you could accompany me 
far some months, with your viol d’amore, across the mountains, 
and through the deep valleys, and into the old towns, where no 
travellers ever come, and where all stands still from century to 
century, you would never leave it, any more than I shall. I 
could tell yau of many strange sights I have rntnessed, and if 
we stay long in this place, perhaps you will be glad to hear 
some tales to while away the time.” 

“You spoke but now,” said Inglesant, “of the power that 
music has over the passions of men. I should like to hear 
somewhat more of this.” 

“ I will tell you a cmious tale of that also,” said the man. 


THE VIELLE-PLAYER’S STORY. 

“Some twenty-five years ago there lived in Rome two 
friends, who were both musicians, and greatly attached to each 
other. The elder, whose name was Giacomo Andrea, was 
maestro di capella of one of the Churches, the other was an 
accomplished lutinist and singer. The elder was a cavaliere 
and a man of rank; the younger of respectable parentage, of 
the name of Vanneo. The style of music in which each was 
engaged was sufficiently different to allow of much friendly 
contention ; and many lively debates took place as to the 
respective merits of ‘ Sonate da Chiesa’ and ‘ Sonate da Camera.’ 
Their respective instruments also afforded ground for friendly 
dispute. Vanneo was very desirous that his friend should 
introduce viols and other instruments into the service, in concert 


CHAP. XXII.] 


A ROMANCE. 


241 


1 witli the voices, in the Church in which Vanneo himself sang 
in the choir; but the Cavaliere, who considered this a practice 
derived from the theatre, refused to avail himself of any 
instrument save the organ. Vanneo was more successful in 
inducing his friend to practise upon his favourite instrument 
the lute, though Andrea pretended at first to despise it as a 
!i ladies’ toj^, and liable to injure the shape of the performer, 
ij His friend, however, though devoted to secular music, brought 
to the performance and composition of it so much taste and 
I correct feeling, that Andrea was ravished in spite of himself, 

I and of his preference to the solemn music of the Church. 

I Vanneo excelled in contrasting melancholy and pensive music 
I with bright and lively chords, mingling weeping and laughter in 
I some of the sweetest melodies that imagination ever suggested. 

I He accompanied his own voice on the lute, or he composed 
i pieces for a single voice with accompaniment for violins. In a 
j word, he won his friend over to this grave chamber music, in 
some respects more pathetic and serious than the more mono¬ 
tonous masses and sonatas of the Church composers. Vanneo 
composed expressly for this purpose fantasies on the chamber 
organ, interposed, now and then, with stately and sweet dance 
i music, such as Pavins (so named from the walk of a peacock), 
Almains, and other delightful airs, upon the violins and lute. 
In these fancies he blended, as it were, pathetic stories, gay 
festivities, and sublime and subtle ideas, all appealing to the 
secret and intellectual faculties, so that the music became not 
only an exponent of life but a divine influence. After these 
delightful meetings had continued for several years, circum¬ 
stances obliged Vanneo to accompany a patron to France, and 
from thence he went over into England, to the great King of 
that nation, as one of his private musicians; for the Queen of 
England was a French Princess, and was fond of the lute. 
His departure was a great grief to the Cavaliere, who devoted 
himself more than ever to Church music and to the ofiices of 
religion. He was a man of very devout temper, and was dis¬ 
tinguished for his benevolent disposition, and especially for his 
compassion for the poor, whom he daily relieved in crowds at 
his own door, and in the prisons of Rome, which he daily 
visited. From time to time he heard from his friend, to whom 
he continued strongly attached.” 

“ I was brought up at the English Court,” said Inglesant, 






242 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap. XXII 


“ and have been trying to recall such a man, but cannot recollect 
the name you mention, though I remember several lutinists and 
Italians.” 

“I tell the story as I heard it,” replied the other. “The 
man may have changed his name in a foreign country. One 
day the Cavaliere had received a letter from his friend, brought 
to him by some English gentleman travelling to Rome. Hav¬ 
ing read it, and spent some time with the recollections that 
its perusal suggested to his mind, he set himself to the work 
in which he was engaged—the composition of a motet for some 
approaching festival of the Church ; but although he attempted 
to fix his mind upon his occupation, and was veiy anxious to 
finish his work, he found himself unable to do so. The remem¬ 
brance of his friend took comjilete possession of his mind; and 
his imagination, instead of dwelling on the solemn music of the 
motet, wandered perversely into the alhu’ing world of jdiantasied 
melody which Vanneo had composed. Those sad and pensive 
adagios, passing impercei)tibly into the light gaiety of a festival, 
never seemed so delightful as at that moment. He rose from 
time to time, and walked to and fro in his chamber, and as he 
did so he involuntarily took up a lute which Vanneo had left with 
him as a parting gift, and which always lay within reach. As 
he carelessly touched the strings, something of his friend’s spirit 
seemed to have inspired him, and the lute breathed again with 
something of the old familiar charm. Each time that he took 
it up, the notes formed themselves again under his hand into the 
same melody, and at last he took up a sheet of paper, intended 
for the motet, and scored down the air he had involuntarily 
composed. His fancy being pleased with the occurrence, he 
elaborated it into a lesson, and showed it to several of his asso¬ 
ciates. He gave it the name of ‘ gli amici,’ and it became very 
popular among the masters in Rome as a lesson for their pupils 
on the lute. Among those who thus learnt it was a youth who 
afterwards became j)age to a Florentine gentleman, one Bernard 
Guascoiii, who went into England and took service under the 
ICiiig of that country, who, as you doubtless know better than 
I do, was at war with his people.” 

“I know the Cavaliere Guasconi,” said Inglesant, “ and saw 
him lately in Florence, where he is training running horses for 
the Grand Duke.” 

“ This war,” continued the man, “ appears to have been the 



CHAP. XXII.] 


A ROMANCE. 


243 


ruin of canneo; for the English peoj le, besides hating their 
King, took to hating all kinds of music, and all Churches and 
choristers. Vanneo lost his place as one of the King’s musi¬ 
cians, and not being able to earn his living by teaching music 
■udiere so few cared to learn, he was forced to enlist as a soldier 
in one of the King’s armies, and was several times near losing 
his life. He escaped these dangers, however; but the army in 
i which he served being defeated and dispersed, he wandered 
j about the country, wounded, and suffering from sickness and 
I want of food. He supported himself miserably, partly by 
I charity, especially among the loyalist families, and partly by 
i giving singing lessons to such as desired them. He was without 
I friends, or any means of procuring money to enable him to 
i return to Italy. As he was walking in this manner one day in 
the streets of London, without any hope, and with scarcely any 
! life, he heard the sound of music. It was long since the melody 
of a lute, once so familiar, had fallen on his ear; and as he 
stopped to listen, the notes came to him through the thick moist 
air like an angelic and divine miu-mur from another world. The 
music seemed to come from a small room on the ground-floor 
of a poor inn, and Vanneo opened the door and went in. He 
found a young man, plainly dressed, playing on a double-necked 
theorbo-lute, which, from the number of its strings, enables, 
as you know, the skilful lutinist to play part music, with all 
the varieties of fugues and other graces and ornaments of the 
Italian manner. The jiiece which the young man was play¬ 
ing consisted of an allegro and yet sweet movement on the 
tenor strings, with a sustained harmony in thorough bass. 
The melody, being carefully distributed through the parts, spoke 
to Vanneo of gaiety and cheerfulness, as of his old Italian 
life, strangely combined at the same time with a soothing 
and pathetic melancholy, hke a corpse carried through the 
streets of a gay city, strewn with flow^ers and accompanied with 
tapers and singing of boys. The wdiole piece finished with a 
pastorale, or strain of low and sweet notes. As Vanneo listened 
he was transported out of himself It was not alone the beauty 
of the music wdiich ravished him, but he was conscious that a 
mysterious presence, as of his friend the Cavaliere, was with 
him, and that at last the perfect sympathy -vvhica he had sough.t 
so long W93 established; and that in the music he had heard a 
common existence and sphere of li.c was. at last created, in wliirh 




244 


JOHN INGLE&ANT; 


[chap. XXII, 


they both lived, not any longer separate from each other, but 
enjoying as it were one common being of melody and ecstatic 
life of sound. When the music ceased Vanneo accosted the 
lutinist and inquired the name of the composer; but this the 
young man could not tell him. He only knew it was a favour¬ 
ite lesson for skilful pupils among the music-masters in Rome, 
and as such he had learnt it. Vanneo was confident the piece 
had been written by Andrea, and by none other, and told the 
young man so. By this time they had discovered that they 
were fellow-countrymen, and the lutinist sent for refreshments, 
of which Vanneo stood very much in need. He also told him 
that his name was Scacchi, and that he was page to the Signore 
Bernard Guasconi, who was then in arms for the King, and w^as 
besieged in some town of which I have forgotten the English 
name.” 

“ It was Colchester,” said Inglesant; “I was in prison at 
the time of the siege; but I know the history of it and its sad 
ending.” 

“ Becoming very familiar with Vanneo, he advised him to 
accompany him to Colchester. His master, he said, would 
doubtless be set at liberty immediately as a foreigner and a 
friend of the Grand Duke’s, and he could accompany him home 
to Italy as a domestic. As no better prospect was open to 
Vanneo of returning to his native country, he gladly accepted 
the page’s ofier, and agreed to accompany him next day. The 
besiegers of the town which you call Colchester were engaging 
persons from all parts of the country to work their trenches, and 
the town not being fixr from London, many persons went from 
that place to earn the wages offered. Many of the Loyalists 
also took advantage of this pretext, intending to join the 
besieged if a favourable opportunity offered. To one of these 
parties Vanneo and tho page joined themselves. You may 
wonder that I know so much of these matters, Imt I have heard 
the story several times repeated by the page himself. The 
weather was very cold and wet, and the companions underwent 
much hardship on their march. 'They travelled through a flat 
and marshy country, full of woods and groves of trees, and 
crossed with dykes and streams.' Vanneo, however, who had 
endured so much privation and suffering, began to sink under 
his fatigues. After travelling for more than two days they 
irrived at the leaguer. They were told tliat the besieged were 


A ROIVIANCE. 


245 


CHAP. XXII.] 

; expected every day to sarrender at discretion; but they were 
i sent into the trenches with several other volunteers to relieve 
I those already there, many of whom were exhausted with the 
i work, and were deserting. As they arrived at the extreme 
I limit of the lines the besiegers had planted four great pieces of 
' battering cannon against the town, and fired great shot all the 
forenoon, without, however, doing much damage. The Royalists 
mustered all their troops upon the line, intending, as it after¬ 
wards appeared, to break out at night and force their way 
through the leaguer. The lines were so close that the soldiers 
I could throw stones at each other as they lay in the trenches; 
j and Vamieo and the page could see the King’s officers plainly 
‘ upon the city walls. The Royalists did not fire, being short of 
: ammunition, and in the night a mutiny took place among some 
of the foot-soldiers, which prevented the project of cutting their 
way out from taking effect. The soldiers of both armies were 
now already mixed on many places upon the line, and no fire 
was given on either side, as though the Royalists were already 
prisoners. The page left Yanneo, who was worn-out and ill, 

I and easily made his way into the town, where he found his 
master. When he returned to the trenches he found Yanneo 
very ill, and a physician with him, a doctor of the town, named 
Gibson, as I remember, who told the page that he thought his 
companion was dying. Yanneo, in fact, appeared to be insen¬ 
sible, his eyes were closed, and he was perfectly pale. He lay 
in a small house, just within the lines, which had been deserted 
by its inhabitants, who were weavers. The gentlemen were 
under arrest in the town, and it was reported that several were 
to be immediately shot, of whom it was whispered the Signore 
Guasconi was to be one. About two in the afternoon the 
general of the besieging army entered the town, and a great 
rabble of the soldiers with him. The latter broke into many 
houses to search for plunder, and among them into that in which 
Yanneo was lying. As they came into the room and saw' the 
dying man, they stopped and began to question the page as to 
who he w'as. Before he could reply Yanneo opened his eyes 
wdth a smile, raised himself suddenly from the straw on which 
he lay, and, stretching out his hand eagerly as one who welcomes 
a friend, exclaimed in Italian, ‘Cavaliere, the consonance is 
complete and having said this he fell back upon the straw 
again, and, the smile still upon his face, he dicd.’^ 



246 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap. XXIIi 


The musician stopped a moment, and then glancing at 
Inglesant with a curious look said, “ It is confidently said that 
about that very moment the Cavaliere Andrea died at Rome; 
at any rate, when the page retimned to Italy and inquired for 
him at Rome, he was dead. He caught a fever in one of his 
visits to the prisons, and died in a few days.” 

“ Did the page tell you of the two gentlemen who were shot 
at Colchester 1 ” said Inglesant. 

“Yes, he told me that Guasconi stood by with his doublet 
off expecting his turn; but when the others were shot he was 
taken back to his prison. They only found out he was an 
Italian by his asking leave to write to the Grand Duke.” 

“ I have been told,” he continued, “ that this poor King 
was a gi’eat lover of music, and played the bass viol himself.” 

“ He was a great admirer of Church music,” said Inglesant; 
“ I have often seen him appoint the service and anthems him¬ 
self.” 

As the conversation of this man was a gi’eat entertainment 
to Inglesant, so his sudden and unexpected death was a great 
shock to him. The physician could give no clear explanation 
of his disease, and the general opinion was that he died of the 
plague, though it was, of coiuse, the interest of every one in the 
pest-house that this should not be acknowledged. 

A few days after the bm’ial two of the Jesuit Fathers arrived 
from Florence, accompanied by Don Agostino, who, having in 
vain waited for his friend at Lucca, had sought him at Florence, 
and finally traced him to his dreary prison. By their influence 
Inglesant was allowed to depart; and actuated still by his 
desire to see Venice, set out, accompanied by Don Agostino, in 
the hope of reaching that city. They crossed the Apennines, 
and journeyed by Modena, Mantua, Verona, and Padua. These 
places, which at other times would have excited in Inglesant 
the liveliest interest, were passed by him now as in a dream. 
The listless indifference which grew day by day developed at 
Padua into absolute illness; and Agostino took lodgings for 
his friend in one of the deserted palaces of which the city was 
full. A few days’ rest from travel, and from the excitement 
produced by novel scenes and by the scorching plains, had a 
soothing and beneficent effect; but Venice being reported to 
be at that time peculiarly unhealthjs and Inglesant becoming 
sensible that he was physically imable to prosecute any inquii’ies 


CHAP. XXII.] 


A ROMANCK 


247 


I there, the friends resolved to abandon their journey in that 
direction, and to return towards Home. At this juncture Don 
Agostino received letters which compelled him to return hastily 
to Sienna, and after spending a few days with his friend, he 
left, promising to return shortly and accompany Inglesant to 
Koine, when he "was sufficiently recruited by a few weeks’ 
repose. 

I The failure of the silk trade, owing to the importation of 
I silk from India into Europe, had destroyed the prosperity of 
i| many parts of Italy; and in Padua long streets of deserted 
i mansions attested by their beauty the wealth and ta^te of the 
|| nobility, whom the loss of the rents of their mulberry groves 
had reduced to ruin. Many houses being empty, rents were 
! exceedingly cheap, and the country being very plentiful in pro- 
I ducc, and the air very good, a little money went a long way in 
I Padua. There was something about the quiet gloomy town, 
with its silent narrow streets and its winding dim arcades,— 
by which you might go from one end of the city to the other 
under a shady covert,—that soothed Inglesaiit’s weary senses 
and excited brain. 

I His was that sad condition in which the body and the mind, 
being equally, like the several strings of an ill-kept lute, out of 
tune, jarred iq^on each other, the pains of the body causing 
jihantasms and delusions of the mind. His disappointment ami 
illness at Florence, his long confinement in the pest-house, and 
the sudden death of his friend the poor musician, preyed upon 
his spirits and followed him even in his dreams; and his body 
being weakened by suffering, and his mind depressed by these 
gloomy events and images, the old spiritual terrors returned 
with augmented force. Nature herself, in times of health and 
happiness so alluring and kind, timis against the wretch thus 
deprived of other comfort. The common sights and events of 
life, at one time so full of interest, became hateful to him; and 
amid the solemn twilights and gorgeous sunsets of Italy, his 
imagination was oppressed by an intolerable presentiment of 
coming evil. Finally, he despaired of himself, his past life 
became hateful to him, and nothing in the future promised a 
hope of greater success. He saw himself the mere tool of a 
politi(;al faction, and to his disordered fancy as little better than 
a hireling bravo and mercenary. The rustling of leaves, the 
falling of water, the summer breeze, uttered a pensive and 





248 


JOHN INGLESxlNT ; 


[chap. XXit. 


melancholy voice, which was not soothing, hut was lihe the 
distant moaning of sad spirits foreboding disaster and disgrace. 
On his first arrival in Padua Don Agostino had introduced him 
to two or three ecclesiastics, whose character and conversation 
he thought would please his friend; but Inglesant made little 
effort to cultivate their acquaintance. His principal associate 
was the Prior of the Benedictine monastery, a mile or two 
beyond the Ferrara Gate, who, becoming at last distressed at 
his condition, advised him to consult a famous physician named 
Signore Giovani Zecca. 

This ifian had the reputation of a wit, maintained chiefly 
by a constant study of Boccalini’s “ Parnassus,” with quotations 
from which work he constantly adorned his discourse. He 
found Inglesant prostrate on a couch in his apartment, with 
the Prior by his side. The room had been the state reception- 
room of the former possessor, and the windows, which were 
open, looked upon the wide space within one of the gates. It 
was the most busy part of the city, and for that reason the 
rooms had been chosen by Don Agostino, as commanding the 
most agreeable and lively prospect. 

The Prior having explained to the physician the nature of 
Inglesant’s malady, as far as he v/as acquainted with it, inquired 
whether the situation of the rooms seemed suitable to the 
doctor, or whether it would be well to remove to some country 
house. The scene from the windows indeed was very lively, 
and might be considered too distracting for an invalid. The 
prospect commanded the greater part of the Piazza, or Place 
d’Armes, the gate and drawbridges and the glacis outride, with 
a stretch of country road beyond, lined with poplars. Tliis 
extensive stage was occupied by ever-varying groups,—soldiers 
on guard in stiff and picturesque uniform, men carrying burdens, 
pack-hoi-ses, oxen, now and then a carriage with a string of 
horses and with running footmen, peasant women, priests, 
children, and beggars, with sometimes a puppet-show, or a 
conjuror with apes, and side by side with these last, in strange 
incongruity, the procession of the Host. 

“ From what I know of this gentleman’s malady and dis¬ 
position,” said the physician, “ I should suppose that these 
sights and soimds, though perhaps hurtful to his physical 
nature, are so dear to his moral nature that to speak against 
them were useless. These sounds, though physically un- 


CHAP. XXII. 1 


A ROaiANCE. 


249 


pleasant, contain to the philosophic mind such moral beauty 
as to be attractive in the highest degree, and to such a nature 
as this my patient possesses offer a fascination which it would 
be unwise to contend against.” 

“ If,” said the Prior to Inglesant with a smile, “ your case 
recpiires philosophic treatment, you are fortunate in having 
secured the advice of Signore Zecca, who has the reputation 
of a philosopher and wit, as weU as that of a most skilful 
physician.” 

“ With respect to my calling as a physician, I may make 
some claim certainly,” said the doctor, “if descent has any 
title to confer excellence, for my great-grandfather was that 
celebrated Giovani Zecca, after whom I am named, the Physician 
of Bologna, whom you will find mentioned in the most witty 
‘ Eagguagli ’ of Messere Trajano Boccalini; therefore, if I fail 
in my profession, it is not for want of generations of experience 
and precept; but as regards my proficiency as a philosopher, I 
have no one to depend upon but myself, and my proficiency is 
indeed but small.” 

“ You are pleased to say so. Signore Fisico,” said Inglesant 
languidly, “ with the modesty usual with great minds; never¬ 
theless the remark which you have just made shows you to be 
familiar with the deepest of all philosophy, that of human life. 
It is my misfortune that I am too deeply impressed already 
with the importance of this philosophy, and it is my inadequate 
following of its teaching which is killing me.” 

“ It is a subject of curious study,” said the physician, “ for 
perplexity perhaps, certainly for much satii'e, but scarcely, I 
should think, for martyrdom. The noblest things in life are 
mixed with the most ignoble, great pretence with infinite 
substance, vain-glory with solidness. The fool of one moment, 
the martyr of the next: as in the case of that Spaniard 
mentioned by Messere Boccalini, whose work doubtless you 
know, signore, but if not, I should recommend its perusal as 
certain to do much to work your cure. This man—the 
Spaniard I mean — dying most gallantly upon the field of 
honour, entreated his friend to see him buried without un¬ 
clothing him; and with these words died. His body being 
afterwards examined, it was found that he who was so sprucely 
dressed, and who had a ruff about his neck so curiously wrought 
as to be of great value, had never a shirt on his back. This 


250 


JOHN INGLESANT ; 


[chap. XXII, 


discovery caused great laughter among the vulgar sort of man¬ 
kind ; but by order of Apollo, the great ruler of learning and 
])]iilosophy, this Spaniard was given a public and splendid 
funeral, equal to a Koman triumph; and an oration was 
pronounced over him, who was so happy that, in his great 
calamity, he was careful of his reputation before his life. His 
noble funeral seems to me rather to proclaim the fact that our 
worst meannesses cannot deprive us of the dignity of that pity 
which is due to human nature standing by the brink of an 
open grave. A man has mistaken the secret of human life who 
does not look for greatness in the midst of folly, for sparks of 
nobility in the midst of meanness; and the well-poised mind 
distributes with impartiality the praise and the blame.” 

“ It is my misfortune,” replied Inglesant, “ that my mind 
is incapable of this well-poised impartiality, but is worn out by 
the unworthy conflict which the spirit wnthiii us wages with 
the meannesses of life. As the Psalmist says, ‘The very 
abjects make mouths at me, and cease not.’ ” 

“You are like those people, signore,” said the physician, 
“ mentioned by Messere Boccalini, whom the gi*eatest physicians 
failed to cure, but who were immediately restored to active 
health by the simple and common remedies of a quack. You 
seek for remedies among the stars and the eternal verities of 
creation, whereas your ailment of mind arises doubtless from 
some physical derangement, which perchance a learner in heal¬ 
ing might overcome.” 

“The fatal confusion of human life,” said Inglesant, “is 
surely too obvious a fact to be accounted for by the delusions 
of idiysical disease.” 

The physician looked at Inglesant for a moment, and said,— 

“ Some time, signore, I will tell you a story, not out of 
Boccalini, Avhich perchance will convince you tliat, strange as it 
may seem, the realities of life and the delusions of disease are 
not so dissimilar as you tliink.” 

“If it be so,” said Inglesant, “your prescription is more 
terrible than my complaint.” 

“I do not see that,” replied the other. “I have said 
nothing but what should show you how unwise you will be, if 
you overlook the bodily ailment in searching into the diseases 
of the soul.” 

“I am well aware,” replied Inglesant, “that my ailment is 


CHAP. XXII.] 


A ROMANCK 


251 


one of the hocly as well as of the mind; but were my body 
made perfectly whole and sound, my cure could scarcely be said 
to be begun.” 

“ I hold that most of the sorrows and perplexities of the 
mind are to be traced to a diseased body,” replied the physician, 
not paying much attention to what his patient said ; “ the 
passion of the heart, heavy and dull siiiiits, vain imaginations, 
the vision of spectres and phantoms, grief and sorrow without 
manifest cause,—all these things may be cured by purging away 
melancholy humom’s from the body, especially as I conceive 
from the meseraic veins; and the heart will then be comforted, 
in the taking away the material cause of sorrow, which is not 
to be looked for in the world of spirits, nor in any providential 
government of God, nor even in outward circumstances and 
perplexities, but in the mechanism of the body itself.” 

“ What cures do you propound that may be hoped to work 
such happy results?” said the Prior, for Inglesant did not 
speak. 

“ We have many such cures in physics—physics studied by 
the light of the heavenly science,” said the physician; “ such as 
the Saturica Sancti Juliani, which grows plentifully on the 
rough clilfs of the Tyrrhenian Sea, as the old Greek chrono- 
gra])hers called it, called St. Julian’s Rock; the Epithymum, 
or thyme, -which is under Saturn, and therefore very fitted for 
melancholy men; the Febrifuga, or, in our Italian tongue, 
Artemisia Tenuifolia, good for such as be melancholy, sad, 
pensive, and without power of speech; the distilled water of the 
Fraga, or Strawberry, drunk with white wine reviveth the 
spirits, and as the holy Psalmist says, ‘ Lsetificat cor hominis; ’ 
and the herb Panax, which grows on the top of the Apenniiie, 
and is cherished in all the gardens of Italy for its wonderful 
healing qualities; but the liquor of it, which you may buy in 
Venice, is not distilled in Italy, but is brought from Alexandi'ia, 
a city of Egypt.” 

“ You do not speak of the chemical medicines,” said Inglc- 
sant, “ -which were much thought of in England when I was in 
Oxford; and many wonderful cures were worked by them, 
though I remember hearing that the young doctor who firet 
introduced them, and wrought some great cui’es, died himself 
soon after.” 

“ I have indeed no faith in the new doctrine of chemical 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap. XXIII. 


compositions and. receipts,” said'the physician, “which from 
mere empirics must needs be very dangerous, but from a man 
that is well grounded in the old way may do strange things. 
The works of God are freely given to man. His medicines are 
common and cheap; it is the medicines of the new physicians 
that are so dear and scarce to find.” 

Signore Zecca soon after took his leave, promising to send 
Inglesant a cordial, the ingredients of which he said were 
gathered on “a Friday in the hour of Jupiter,” and which 
would be sufiicient to give sleep, pleasant dreams, and quiet 
rest to the most melancholy man in the world. For, as he 
sensibly observed, “ waking is a symptom which much tortimes 
melancholy men, and must therefore be speedily helped, and 
sleep by all means procured. To such as you especially, who 
have what I call the temperament of sensibility, are fearful of 
pain, covet music and sleep, and delight in poetiy and romance, 
sleep alone is often a sufiicient remedy.” 

The doctor frequently visited Inglesant, who found his 
humom' and cuiious learning entertaining; and on one occasion, 
when they were alone together, he reminded him of his promise 
to relate a story which would prove his assertion that the ills 
of the soul were occasioned by those of the body. 

Note.—T he MSS. are here imperfect. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

In spite, however, of the reasonings and prescriptions of the 
physician, the oppression upon Inglesant’s brain became more 
intolerable. Every new object seemed burnt into it by the 
sultry outward heat, and by his own fiery thoughts. The livid 
scorched plains, with the dark foliage, the hot piazzas and 
highways, seemed to him thronged with ghastly phantoms, all 
occupied more or less in some evil or fruitless work. As to his 
physical sense all objects seemed distorted and awTy, so to 
his mental perception the most ordinary events bore in them 
the germs, however slight, of that terrible act of murderous 
terror that had marred and ruined his own life. In some form 


CHAP. XXIIT.] 


A ROJUANCE. 


253 


or other, in the passionate look, in the gambler’s gesture, in 
the lover’s glance, in the juggler’s grimace, in the passion of 
the little child, he saw the stealthy trail of the Italian murderer, 
before whose cowardly blow his brother fell. The cool, ne¬ 
glected courts of Padua afforded no relief to his racked brain, 
no solace to his fevered fancy. He frequented the shadowed 
churches and the solemn masses daily without comfort; for his 
conscience was once more weighted with the remembrance of 
Serenus de Cressy, and of his own rejection of the narrow path 
of the Holy Cross. A sense of oppression and confusion rested 
upon him mentally and physically, so that he could see no 
objects steadily and clearly ; but without was a phantasmagoria 
of terrible bright colours, and within a mental chaos and disorder 
without a clue. A constant longing filled his mind to accept 
De Cressy’s offer, and he would have returned to France but 
for the utter impossibility of making the journey in his condi¬ 
tion of health. He withdrew himself more and more from 
society, and at last, without informing his friends of his inten¬ 
tion, he retired to a small monastery without the city, about 
a mile from the Traviso Gate, and requested to be admitted as 
a novice. The result of this step at the outset was beneficial; 
for the perfect seclusion, and the dim light of the cells and 
shaded garden, relieved the brain, and restored the disordered 
sense of vision. 

It was some time before, Don Agostino received intelligence, 
through the Prior, of this step of his friend’s. He immediately 
came to Padua, and had several interviews with Inglesant, but 
apparently failed to produce any impression upon him. He 
then returned to Florence, and induced the Cardinal Rinuccini, 
from whose influence upon Inglesant he hoped much, to accom¬ 
pany him to Padua. 

The Cardinal was a striking-looking and singularly hand¬ 
some man, his countenance resembling the reputed portraits of 
Moli^re, whose bust might be taken for that of a pagan god. 
There was the same open, free expression, as of a man who 
confined his actions by no bounds, who tasted freely of that 
tree of good and evil, which, it is reported, transforms a man 
into a god, and of that other tree which, since the flaming 
sword of the cherubim kept the way to the true, has passed 
in the world for the tree of life; who had no prejudices nor 
partialities, but included all mankind, and all the opinions of 


254 


JOHN INGLESANT ; 


[chap. XXIII, 


men, witliin the wide range of perfect tolerance and lofty in¬ 
difference. He found Inglesaiit in his novice’s dress walking 
in the small walled-in gai-den of the monastery, beneath the 
mulberry trees, his breviary in his hand. After the first greeting 
the Cardinal inquired touching his health. 

“You are familiar with English, Eminence,” replied Ingle- 
sant, “and remember Hamlet; and you will therefore understand 
the state of a man for whom the world is too strong.” 

“ It is only the weak,” replied the Cardinal, “ for whom 
the world is too strong. You know what Terence says, ‘ Ita 
vita est hominum quasi cum ludas tesseris,’ or, as we should 
rather say, ‘Life is like a game of cards you cannot control 
the cards, but of such as turn up you must make the most.” 

“ Illud quod cecidit forte, id arte ut corrigas.” 

“The freewill, the reason, and the power of self-command, 
struggle perpetually with an array of chance incidents, of 
mechanical forces, of mnterial causes, beyond foresight or con¬ 
trol, but not beyond skilful management. This gives a delicate 
zest and point to life, which it would surely want if we had 
the power to frame it as we would. We did not make the 
world, and are not responsible for its state ; but we can make 
life a fine art, and, taking things as we find them, like wise 
men, mould them as may best serve our own ends.” 

“We are not all wise, jmur Eminence, and the ends that 
some of us make our aim are far beyond our reach.” 

“ I was ever moderate in my desires,” said the Cardinal 
v/ith a smile ; “ I shoot at none of these high-flying game. I 
am content to live from day to day, and leave the future to 
the gods; in the meantime sweetening life as I can with some 
pleasing toys here and there, to relish it.” 

“You have read Don Quixote, Eminence,” said Inglesant; 
“and no doubt hold him to have been mad.” 

“ He was mad, doubtless,” replied the Cardinal, smiling. 

“ I am mad, like him,” rejAied the other. 

“ I understand you,” said the Cardinal; “ it is a noble 
madness, from which we inferior natures are free; nevertheless, 
it may be advisable for a time to consult some worldly physician, 
that by his help this nobleness may be preserved a little longer 
upon earth and among men.” 

“No worldly physician knows the disease, much less the 
cure,” said Inglesant. “ Don Quixote died in his bed at la^t, 


CHAP. XXIII.] 


A RO^MANCE. 


255 


talked down by petty commonplace, acknowledging his madness, 
and calling liis noble life a mistake; how much more shall I, 
whose life has been the more ignoble for some transient gleams 
of splendour which have crossed its path in vain ! The world 
is too strong for me, and heaven and its solution of life’s enigma 
too far off” 

“ There is no solution, believe me,” said the Cardinal, “ no 
solution of life’s enigma worth the reading. But suppose there 
be, you are more likely to find it at Rome than here. Put off 
that monk’s dress, and come with me to Rome. What solution 
can you hope to find, Vaooding on your own heart, on this 
narrow plot of grass, shut in by lofty walls % You, and natures 
like yours, make this great error; you are moralizing and 
speculating upon what life ought to be, instead of taking it as it 
is; and in the meantime it slips by you, and you are nothing, 
and life is gone. I have heard, and you doubtless, in a fine 
concert of viols, extemporary descant upon a thorough bass in 
the Italian manner, when each performer in turn plays such 
variety of descant, in concordance to the bass, as his skill and 
present invention may suggest to him. In this manner of play 
the consonances invariably fall true upon a given note, and 
every succeeding note of the gi’ound is met, now in the unison 
or octave, now in the concords, preserving the melody through¬ 
out by the laws of motion and sound. I have thought that 
this is life. To a solemn bass of mystery and of the unseen, 
each man plays his own descant as his taste or late suggests ; 
but this manner of play is so governed and controlled by what 
seems a fatal necessity, that all melts into a species of harmony; 
and even the very discords and dissonances, the wild passions 
and deeds of men, are so attempered and adjusted that without 
them the entire piece would be incomplete. In this way I look 
upon life as a spectacle, ‘ in theatre Indus.’ Have you sat so 
long that you are tired already of the play 

“I have read in some book,”^ said Inglesant, “that it is 
not the play—only the rehearsal. The play itself is not given 
till the next life. But for the rest your Eminence is but too 
right. There is no solution within my own heart, and no help 
within these wails.” 

There can be little doubt that had Inglesant remained much 

1 What this hook is, I do not know. The remark was made by Jean 
I’aul, in Hesperus, some hundred years after Inglesant’s day. 


25G 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap. XXIil 


longer in the monastery, he would have sunk into a settled 
melancholy. The quiet and calm, while it soothed his brain 
and relieved it of the phantoms that distracted it, allowed the 
mind to dwell exclusively upon those depressing thoughts and 
ideas which were exhausting his spirit and reducing him well- 
nigh to despair. However undesirable at other times the 
Cardinal’s philosophic paganism might be, no doubt, at this 
moment, his society was highly beneficial to Inglesant, to 
whom, indeed, his conversation possessed a peculiar charm. It 
could, indeed, scarcely fail to attract one who himself sympa¬ 
thized with that philosophy of tolerance of, and attraction to, the 
multiform aspects of life which Paganism and the Cardinal 
equally followed. On the other hand, Rinuccini had from the 
first been personally strongly attracted towards Inglesant, and, 
as a matter of policy, attached just importance to securing his 
services, both on account of what he had learnt from his brother, 
and from the report of the Jesuits. 

After some further conversation the Cardinal returned to 
Padua in triumph, bringing Inglesant with him, w'hom he 
loaded with kindness and attention. A suite of apartments 
was placed at his disposal, certain of the Cardinal’s servants 
were ordered to attend him, and the finest horses were devoted 
to his use on the approaching journey. After waiting in Padua 
some days, to make preparations which w^ere necessaiy in the 
neglected state of Inglesant’s affairs, they set out for Rome. 
Don Agostino was still in Florence, the politics of his family 
not suffering him to visit the papal city at present. 

Their first day’s journey took them, through the fertile and 
well-cultivated Venetian States, to Rovigo, where they crossed 
the Po, dividing the territory of the Republic from the Ferrarese, 
which State had lately been acquired by the Pope. 

This country, which, while it possessed princes of its own, 
had been one of the happiest and most beautiful parts of Italy, 
was now abandoned and uncultivated to such an extent that 
the grass was left unmowm on the meadows. At Ferrara, a 
vast city which appeared to Inglesant like a city of the dead as 
he walked through streets of stately houses without an inhabit¬ 
ant, the chief concourse of people was the crowd of beggars who 
thronged round the Cardinal’s coach. After dinner Inglesant 
left his companion, who liked to linger over his wine, and 
walked out into the quiet streets. The long, deserted vistas of 


CHAP. XXIII.] 


. A ROMANCE. 


257 


this vast city, sleeping in the liglit and shadow of the afternoon 
sun, disturbed now and then only by a solitary footstep, pleased 
his singular fancies as Padua had done. He entered several 
of the Churches, which were mean and poorly adorned, and 
spoke to several of the priests and loiterers. Everywhere he 
heard complaints of the poverty of the place, of the misery of 
the people, of the bad unwholesome air, caused by the dearth 
of inhabitants to cultivate the land. When he came to inquire 
into the causes of this, most held their peace; but one or two 
idlers, bolder or more reckless than the rest, seeing that he was 
a foreigner, and ignorant that he was riding in the train of the 
Cardinal, whispered to him something of the severity of the 
Papal government, and of the heavy taxes and frequent confis¬ 
cations by which the nephews of several Popes had enriched 
themselves, and devoured many of the principal families of the 
city, and driven away many more. ‘‘ They talk of the bad air,” 
said one of these men to Inglesant; “ the air was the same a 
century ago, when this city was flourishing under its own 
princes—princes of so eminent a virtue, and of so heroical a 
nobleness, that they were really the Eathers of their country. 
Nothing,” he continued, with a mute gesture of the hands, 
“ can be imagined more changed than this is now.” 

“But Bologna is under the Pope, also,” said Inglesant, 
“and is flourishing enough.” 

“ Bologna,” he answered, “ delivered itself up to the Pope¬ 
dom upon a capitulation, by which there are many privileges 
reserved to it. Crimes there are only punished in the persons 
of those who commit them. There are no confiscations of 
estates ; and the good result of these privileges is evident, for, 
though Bologna is neither on a navigable river nor the centre 
of a sovereignty where a Court is kept, yet its happiness and 
w^ealth amaze a stranger; while we, once equally fortunate, are 
like a city in a dream.” 

Inglesant returned to the inn to the Cardinal, and related 
what he had heard; to all which dismal stories the Prelate 
only replied by significant gesture. 

The next morning, however, as he was entering his carriage, 
followed by his friend, he seemed to take particular notice of 
the crowd of beggars that surrounded the inn. In Inglesant’s 
eyes they only formed part (together with the strange, quiet 
streets, the shaded gardens, and the ever-changing scenes of 


258 


JOHN INGLESANX; 


[chap. XXIII 


tlieir journey) in tliat shifting pliantasni of form and colour, 
meaningless to him, except as it might suddenly, and in some 
imexi)ected way, become a part and scene of the fatal drama 
that had seized upon and crijipled his life. But to the Cardi¬ 
nal, who had the training of a politician, though he subordi¬ 
nated politics to enjoyment, these swarms of beggars and these 
decaying States had at times a deeper interest. 

“ Tliese people,” he said, as the carriage moved on, “ certainly 
seem very miserable, as you told me last night. To those whose 
tastes lay that way, it would not be a useless business to inquire 
into these matters, and to try to set them right. Some day, 
probably far distant, some of us, or those like us who clotlie in 
scarlet and fine linen, will have to pay a reckoning for these 
things.” 

“They are less unhappy than I am,” said Inglesant. “As 
to the luxurious persons of whom you speak, it lias been my 
fate to be of their party all my life, and to serve them for very 
poor reward; and I doubt not that, when their damnation, of 
which your Eminence speaks, arrives, I shall share it with 
them. But it might seem to one who knows little of such 
things that some such attempt might be looked for from a 
sworn soldier and prince of the Church.” 

The Cardinal smiled. The freedom with which InglesanCs 
sarcastic humour showed itself at times, when the melancholy 
fit was upon him, was one of the sources of attraction which 
attached the young Englishman to his iierson. 

“Life is short,” he said, “and tlie future very uncertain; 
martyrs have died, nay, still harder fate, have lived long lives 
of such devotion as that which you wish me to attempt, and we 
see very little result. Christianity is not of much use appa¬ 
rently to many of the nations of the earth. Now, on my side, 
as I pass my life, I certainly enjoy this world, and I as certainly 
have cultivated my mind to sustain, as far as I can foresee the 
]>robable, the demand and strain that will be put upon it, both 
in the exit from this life, and in the entrance upon another. 
Why then should I renounce these twm positive goods, and 
embrace a life of restless annoyance and discomfort, of anta¬ 
gonism to existing systems and order, of certain failure, disap¬ 
pointment, and the peevish protestation of a prophet to whom 
the world will not listen V’ 

“There is no reasim why, certainly,” said Inglesant, “for a 


CHAP. XXIIL] 


A ROMANCE. 


259 


sane man like your Eminence. I see clearly, it must only have 
been madmen wiio in all ages have been driven into the fire 
and upon the swoi-d’s point in pursuit of an idea which they 
fancied was worth the pain, but which, as they never realized 
it, they could never put to the test.” 

“ I perceive your irony,” said the Cardinal, “ and I recognize 
your Avit. What astonishes me is the interest you take in these 
old myths and dreary services. The charm of novelty must 
have worn itself out by this time.” 

“ Christ is real to many men,” said Inglesant, and the 
world seems to manifest within itself a remedial power such as 
may be supposed to be His.” 

“ I do not dispute such a power,” rejdied the Cardinal ; “ I 
only wonder at the attachment to these old mytlis which profess 
to expound it.” 

“ The world has now been satisfie<l with them for some 
centuries,” said Inglesant; “and for my own part, I cannot 
help thinking that, even in the blaze of a purer Mythos, some 
of us will look back 'with longing to ‘one of the days of the 
Son of man.’ I do not perceive either that your Eminence 
attempts to improve matters.” 

“ I can afford to wait,” replied the Cardinal, with lolty 
indifference ; “ the myths of the world are slow to change.” 

“ This one certainly,” replied Inglesant, with a smile, “ has 
been slow to change, jierhaps because men found in it some¬ 
thing that reminded them of their daily life. It speaks of 
suffering and of sin. The cross of Christ is composed of many 
other crosses—is the centre, the type, the essence of all crosses. 
AVe must Heifer Avith Christ Avhether Ave believe in Him or not. 
AVe must suffer for the sin of others as for our oavii ; and in 
this suffering Ave find a healing and purifying poAver and element. 
That is what gives to Christianity, in its simplest and most 
unlettered form, its force and life. Sin and suffering for sin ; a 
sacrifice, itself mysterious, offered mysteriously to the Divine 
Hemesis or LaAV of Sin,—dread, undefined, unknown, yet sure 
and irresistible, Avith the iron necessity of laAV. This the intel¬ 
lectual Christ, the Platonic-Socrates, did not offer; hence his 
failure, and the success of the Nazareue. Vicisti Galila;e.” 


260 


JOHN .NGLESAiST ; 


[chap. XXIV. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

Among the letters of introduction to persons in Rome which 
Inglesant carried with iiim, was one from Father St. Clare to 
the Rector of the English College, a Jesuit. The Cardinal had 
invited him to remain an inmate of his family, but there were 
several reasons which induced Inglesant to decline the offer. 
He was desirous of observing the situation and habits of the 
great city in a more unfettered way than he would probably be 
able to do if attached to the household of a great man. This 
reason alone would probably have decided him, but it was not 
the only one. In proportion as his mind recovered its natural 
tone, and was able to throw off the depression which had so 
long troubled him, another source of perplexity had taken its 
place. Most men, in those days, with the exception of very 
determined Piuritans, approached Rome with feelings of venera¬ 
tion and awe. Iiiglesant’s training and temperament inclined 
him to entertain these feelings as strongly perhaps as any man 
of the day ; but since he had been in Italy, his eyes and ears 
had not been closed, and it had been impossible for him to 
resist a growing impression, scarcely perhaps amounting to con¬ 
viction, that the nearer he approached the Papal capital the 
more wretched and worse governed did the country appear on 
every side. In the muttered complaints which reached his ear 
these evils were charged partly uj)on the abuses of the Papal 
chair itself, but principally upon the tyranny and oppression of 
the society of the Jesuits. Inglesant made these observations 
mostly in the taverns or cafes in the evenings, when those who 
were present, perceiving him to be a foreigner, were more dis¬ 
posed to be communicative than they otherwise would have 
been. But the Cardinal was known to associate rather with 
the Fathers of the Oratory than with the Jesuits ; and men 
did not hesitate therefore to speak somewhat freely on these 
matters to his familiar companion. These accusations did not 
destroy Inglesant’s faith in the Society, but they made him 
anxious to hear the other side, and to see, if possible from 
within, the working of this great and powerful organization, 
and to understand the motives which prompted those actions 


CHAP. XXIV.] 


A ROMANCE. 


261 


wliich were so much blamed, and which were apparently pro¬ 
ductive of such questionable fruits. If this were to be done, it 
must be done at once. He came to Rome recommended to the 
Jesuits’ College, almost an accredited agent. He would be 
received without suspicion, and would probably be enabled to 
obtain an insight into much of their policy. But if at the out¬ 
set he associated himself with persons and interests hostile, or 
at least indifferent, to those of the party to which he belonged, 
and which he wished to understand, this opportunity would 
doubtless soon be lost to him. Acting upon these considera¬ 
tions, he parted from the Cardinal, to whom he confided his 
motives, and made his way to the English College or house, 
wliich was situated in the street leading to St. Peter’s and 
the Vatican, and not far from the Bridge and Castle of St. 
Angelo. 

The College was a large and fair house, standing in several 
courts and gardens. Inglesant was received with com'tesy by 
the rector, who said that he remembered seeing him in London, 
and that he had also been at his father’s house in Wiltshire. 
He named to him several Priests who had also been there; but 
so many Papists ,had been constantly coming and going at 
Westacre, during the time that Father St. Clare had resided 
there, that Inglesant could not recall them to mind. The 
rector, however, mentioned one whom he remembered, the 
gentleman who had given him St. Theresa’s Life. He advised 
Inglesant to remain some days at the College, as the usual and 
natural resort of all Englishmen connected in any wvay with the 
Court and Church of Rome, promising him pleasant rooms. 
He showed him his apartment, a small but handsome guest- 
chamber, looking upon a garden, with a sort of oratory or closet 
adjoining, with an altar and crucifix. The bell rang for supper, 
but the- rector had that meal laid for himself and his guest in 
his private room. The students, and those who took their 
meals at the common table, had but one good meal in the day, 
tliat being a most excellent one. Their supper consisted of a 
glass of wine and a rnanchet of bread. 

The rector and Inglesant had much talk together, and after 
the latter had satisfied his host, as best he could, upon all those 
points—and they were many—connected with the state of 
affaii'S in England upon which he desired information, the rector 
began in his turn to give his guest a desc ription of affairs in 


262 JOHN INGLESANT ; [ciiAV. XXIV. 

Rome, and of those things which he should see, and how best 
to see them. 

“I will not trouble you now,” he said, “with any policy or 
State affairs. You will no doubt wish to spend the next few 
days in seeing the wonderful sights of this place, and in becom¬ 
ing familiar with its situation, so that you may study them 
more closely afterwards. A man must indeed be ill-endowed 
by nature who does not find in Rome delight in every branch 
of learning and of art. The libraries are open, and the students 
have access to the rarest books; in the Churches the most 
exquisite voices are daily heard, the palaces are crowded with 
pictures and with statues, ancient and modern. You have, 
besides, the stately streets and noble buildings of every age, 
the presence of strangers from every part of the world, villas 
covered with ‘bassi relievi,’ and the enjoyment of nature in 
enchanting gardens. To a man who loves the practices of 
devotion I need not mention the life-long employment among 
the Churches, relics, and processions. It is this last that gives 
the unique completeness of the Roman life within itself. To 
the abundance of its earthly wealth, to the delights of its intel¬ 
lectual gratifications, is added a feeling of unequalled security 
and satisfaction, kept alive, in a pious mind, by the incessant 
contemplation of the objects of its reverence. I do not know 
if you are by taste more of a scholar than of a religious, but 
both tastes are worthy of cultivation, nor is all spiritual learning 
necessarily confined to the last. There is much that is very 
instructive in the lessons which the silent stones and shattered 
monuments of the fallen cities over which we walk teach us. 
It has been well observed that everjffhing that has been dug 
out of the ruins of ancient Rome has been found mutilated, 
either by the barbarians, fanaticism, or time; and one of our 
poets, Janus Vitalis, seeing all the massive buildings mouldered 
or mouldering away, and the ever-changing Tiber only remaining 
the same, composed this ingenious and pleasing verse— 

‘ Disce hinc quid possit fortuua ; immota labascunt; 

Et quae perpetuo sniit iluitura, uiaiient.’ 

You will find that the Italian humour delights much in such 
thoughts as these, which make the French and other nations 
accuse us of niehuicholy. The Italnin has a strong fancy, yet 
a strong judgment, and this makes him delight in such things 


CHAP. XXIV.] 


A ROMANCE. 


2G3 


as please the fancy, while at the same time they are in accord¬ 
ance with judgment and with reason. He delights in music, 
medals, statues, and pictures, as things which either divert his 
melancholy or humour it; and even the common peoj)le, such 
as shoemakers, have formed curious collections of medals of 
gold, silver, and brass, such as would have become the cabinet 
of a prince. Do you wish to begin with the Chiu'ches or with 
the antiquities 

Inglesant said he wished to see the Churches first of all. 

“ You will, no doubt,” said the rector, “ find a great satis¬ 
faction in such a choice. You Avill be overcome with the 
beauty and solemnity of these sacred places, and the sweetness 
of the organs and of the singing will melt your lieart. At the 
same time, I should wish to point out to you, to whom I wish 
to speak without the least reserve, that you will no doubt see 
some things which will surprise you, nay, which may even 
appear to you to be, to say the least, of questionable advantage. 
You must understand once for all, and constantly bear in mind, 
that this city is like none other, and that many things are 
natural and proper here which would be strange and ill-fitted 
elsewhere. Rome is the visible symbol and representation of the 
Christian truth, and we live here in a perpetual masque or holy 
interlude of the life of the Saviour. As in other countries and 
cities, outward representations are placed before the people of 
the awful facts and incidents on which their salvation rests, so 
here this is carried still farther, as indeed was natural and 
almost inevitable. It was a very small step from the repre¬ 
sentation of the flagellation of Christ, to the very pillar on 
which He leant. Indeed, where these representations were 
enacted, the simple country people readily and naturally con¬ 
ceived them to have taken place. Hence, when you are shown 
the three doors of Pilate’s house in which Jesus passed and 
repassed to and from judgment, the steps up which He walked, 
the rock on which He promised to build His Church, the stone 
on whicli the cock stood and crowed when Peter denied Him, 
part of His coat and of His blood, and several of the nails of 
His cross, — more, possibly, than were originally used, over 
whicli the heretics have not failed to make themselves very 
merry;—wdien you see all these things, I say, and if you fe^l, 
as I do not say you will 'feel—but if you feel any hesitancy to 
even some repulsion, as though these miraculous things were or 


264 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap. XXIV. 


you matters moie of doubt than worship, you will not fail at 
once to see the true nature and bearing of these things, nor to 
apply to them the solution which your philosophy has doubtless 
given already to many difficult questions of this life. These 
things are true to each of us according as we see them; they 
are, in fact, but shadows and likenesses of the absolute truth 
that reveals itself to men in different ways, but always imper¬ 
fectly and as in a glass. To the simple-hearted peasant that 
pavement upon which in his mind’s eye he sees Jesus walking, 
is verily and indeed pressed by th^ Divine feet; to him this 
pillar, the sight of which makes the stinging whips creep along 
liis flesh, is the pillar to which the Lord was tied. Our people, 
both peasant and noble, are of the nature of cliildren—children 
who are naughty one moment and sincerely penitent the next. 
They are now wildly dissolute, the next day prostrate before 
tlie cross; and as such, much that is true and beautiful in 
tlieir lives seems otherwise to the cold and world-taught heart. 
Blit our Lord honoured the childlike heart, and will not send 
away our poor peasants when they come to Him with their 
little offerings, even though they lay them at the feet of a 
Bambino doll.” 

“But do you not find,” said Inglesant, “that this devotion, 
which is so ephemeral, is rather given to the sensible object than 
to the unseen Christ T’ 

“ It may be so,” said the rector; “ there is no good but what 
has its alloy; but it is a real devotion, and it reaches after 
Christ. Granted that it is dark; no doubt in the darkness it 
finds Him, though it cannot see His form.” 

“ Doubtless,” said Inglesant, who saw that the rector did 
not wish to dwell on this part of the subject, “ as we say in our 
service in England, we are the sheep of His pasture, and we are 
all branded with the mark which He puts upon His sheep—the 
innate knowledge of God in the soul.* I remember hearing of a 
man who believed that he had a guardian spirit who awoke him 
every morning with the audible words, ‘ Who gets up first to 
prayl’ If this man was deluded, it could not have been by 
"Satan. ” 

In the morning, when Inglesant awoke, he saw from his 
window, over the city wall, the Monte Mario, with its pine 
woods, and the windows of its scattered houses lighted by the 
rising sun. The air was soft and balmy, and he remained at 


CHAP. XXIV.] 


A ROMANCR 


205 


the oi^en window, letting his mind grow certain of the fact that 
he was in Rome. In the clear atmosphere of the Papal city 
there was a strange shimmer of light upon the distant hills and 
on the green tufts and hillocks of the waste ground beyond the 
W’alls. -The warm air fanned his temples, and in the stillness of 
the early morning a delicious sense of a wonderful and unknown 
land, into the mysteries of which he was about to enter, filled 
his mind. 

It was indeed a strange world which lay before him, and 
resembled nothing so much as that to which the rector had 
aptly compared it the night before—a sacred interlude full of 
wild and fantastic sights ; Churches more sublime than the 
di'eams of fancy painted, across whose marble pavements saints 
and angels moved familiarly with men; pagan sepulchres and 
banqueting chambers, where the phantoms flickered as in Tar¬ 
tarus itself; vaults and Christian catacombs, where the cry of 
martyrs mingled with the chanting of masses sung beneath the 
sod, and where the torch-light flashed on passing forms of horror, 
quelled everywhere by the figirre of the Crucified, that at every 
tuni kept the place; midnight processions and singing, startling 
the darkness and scaring the doers of darkness, mortal and im¬ 
mortal, that lurked among the secret places, where the crimes 
of centuries stood like ghastly corpses at every step; and above 
all and through all the life of Jesus, enacted and re-enacted year 
after year and day by day continually, not in dumb show or 
memorial only, but in deed and fact before the eyes of men, as 
if, in that haunt of demons and possessed, in that sink of i)ast 
and present crime, nothing but the eternal presence and power 
of JesiLs could keep the fiends in check. 

The rector took Inglesant over the College, and showed him 
the life and condition of the inmates under its most pleasing 
aspect. As he then saw it, it reminded him of a poem he had 
heard Mr. Crashaw read at Little Gidding, describing a reli¬ 
gious house and condition of life, and he quoted part of it to 
the rector:— 

“ No cruel guard of diligent cares, that keep 

Crowned woes awake, as things too wise for sleep : 

But reverend discipline, and religious fear,* 

And soft obedience, find sweet biding liere ; 

Silence and sacred rest, peace and pure joys ” 

When they had seen the College the rector said,— 


266 


JOHN INGLESANT ; 


[chap. XXIV. 


“ We will go this morning to St. Peter’s. It is better that 
you should see it at once, though the fii’st sight is nothing. 
Then at three o’clock we will attend vespers at the Capello del 
Coro, where there is fine music every day in the presence of a 
cardinal; afterwards, as Rome is very full, there will be* a great 
confluence of carriages in the Piazza of the Farnese Palace, 
which is a favourite resort. There I can show you many of 
the great ones, whom it is well you should know by sight, and 
hear something of, before you are presented to them.” 

As they passed out into the street of the city tlie rector 
began a disquisition on the discovery of antiquities in Rome. 
He advised Inglesant to study the cabinets of medals which he 
would meet with in the museums and i)alaces, as they would 
throw great light upon the statues and other curiosities. 

“A man takes a great deal more pleasure,” he said, “in 
surveying the ancient statues who compares them with medals 
than it is possible for him to do without some sucli knowledge, 
for the two arts illustrate each other. The coins throw a great 
light upon many points of ancient history, and enable us to 
distinguish the kings and consuls, emperors and empresses, 
the deities and virtues, with their ensigns and trophies, and 
a thousand other attributes and images not to be learnt or 
understood in any other way. I have a few coins myself, 
wliich I shall be glad to show you, and a few gems, among 
which is an Antinous cut in a carnelian which I value very 
highly. It represents him in the habit of a Mercury, and is 
the finest Intaglio I ever saw. I obtained it by accident from 
a peasant, who found it while digging in his vineyard.” 

Inglesant was too much occupied watching the passers-by 
in the thronged streets to pay much attention to what he said. 
The crowded pavements of Rome offered to his eyes a spectacle 
such as he had never seen, and to his imagination a fanciful 
pageant such as he had never pictured even in his dreams. 
The si)leudid equipages with their metal work of massive silver, 
the strange variety of the clerical costumes, the fiintastic dresses 
of the attendants and papal soldiers, the peasants and pilgrims 
from all countries, even the most remote, crossed his vision in 
an entangled maze. 

As they crossed the bridge of St. Angelo, the rector in¬ 
formed him of the invaluable treasures of antique art which 
were supposed to lie beneath the muddy waters of the river. 


CHAP. XXIV.] A ROMANCE. 2G7 

They passed beneath the castle, and a few moments more 
brought them to the piazza in front of the Church. 

The Coloiinade was not'finished, one side of it being then 
in course of completion ; but in all its brilliant freshness, with 
the innumerable statues, white from the sculptor’s hand, it had 
an imposing and stately effect. The great obelisk, or Guglia, 
as the Italians called it, had been raised to its position some 
seventy years before, but only one of the great fountains was 
complete. Crossing the square, which was full of carriages, and 
of priests and laymen on foot, the rector and Inglesant ascended 
the marble stairs which had formed part of the old Basilica, 
and up wdiich Charlemagne was said to have mounted on his 
knees, and passing through the gigantic porch, with its enormous 
pillars and gilt roof, the rector pushed back the canvas-lined 
curtain that closed the doorway, and they entered the Church. 

The masons were at work completing the marble covering 
of the massive square pillars of the nave ; but though the work 
was unfinished, it w’as sufficient to produce an effect of inexpres¬ 
sible richness and splendour. The vast extent of the pavement, 
prepared as for the heavenly host with inlaying of colours of 
polished stone, agate, serpentine, porphyry, and chalcedon; the 
shining walls, veined with the richest marbles, and studded 
wdth gems; the roof of the nave, carved with foliage and roses 
overlaid with gold ; the distant walls and chambers of imagery, 
dim with incense, through which shone out, scarcely veiled, the 
statues and tombs, the paintings and crucifixes and altars, with 
their glimmering lights ;—all settled down, so to speak, upon 
Inglesant’s soul with a perception of subdued splendour, which 
hushed the spirit into a silent feeling which was partly rest and 
portly awe. 

But when, having traversed the length of the nave without 
uttering a word, he passed from under the gilded roofs, and the 
spacious dome, lofty as a firmament, expanded itself above him 
in the sky, covered with tracery of the celestial glories and 
brilliant with mosaic and stars of gold ; when, opening on all 
sides to the wide transepts, the limitless pavement stretched 
away beyond the reach of sense j when, beneath this vast work 
and finished effort of man’s devotion, he saw the high altar, 
brilliant with lights, surmounted and enthroned by its panoply 
of clustering columns and towering cross ; when, all around him, 
he was conscious of tin; hush and calmness of worship, and felt 


268 JOHN INGLESANT; [cHAP. XXV. 

in his inmost being the sense of vastness, of splendour, and of 
awe ;—he may be pardoned if, kneeling upon the polished floor, 
he conceived for the moment that this was the house of God, 
and that the gate of heaven was here. 

> 1 , * * * * 


CHAPTER XXV. 

“It is almost impossible for a man to form in his imagina¬ 
tion,” said the rector to Inglesaiit, as they left the Church, 
“ such beautiful and glorious scenes as are to be met with in 
the Roman Churches and Chapels. The profusion of the 
ancient marble found within the city itself, and the many fine 
quarries in the neighboiuliood, have made this result p()ssible; 
and notwithstanding the incredible sums of money which have 
been already laid out in this way, the same work is still going 
forward in other parts of Rome; the last effort still endeavour¬ 
ing to outshine those that went before it.” 

Inglesant found this assertion to be true. As he entered 
Church after Church, during the first few days of his sojourn 
in Rome, he found the same marble walls, the same inlaid 
tombs, the same coloured pavements. In the sombre autumn 
afternoons this splendour was toned down and veiled, till it pro¬ 
duced an effect which was inexpressibly noble,—a dim brilliance, 
a subdued and restrained glory, which accorded well with the 
enervating perfume and the strains of romantic music that stole 
along the aisles. In these Churches, and in the monasteries 
adjoining, Inglesant was introduced to many priests and ecclesi¬ 
astics, among whom he might study most of the varieties of 
devout feeling, and of religious life in all its forms. To many 
of these he was not drawn by any feeling of sympathy; many 
were only priests and monks in outward form, being in reality 
men of the world, men of pleasure, or antiquarians and artists. 
But, introduced to the society of Rome in the first place as a 
“devoto” he became acquainted naturally with many who 
aspired to, and who were considered to possess, exceptional 
piety. Among these he was greatly attracted by report towards 
a man who was then beginning to attract attention in Rome, 
and to exert that influence over the highest and most religious 


A ROMANCE. 


269 


CHAP, XXV.] 

natures, which, during a period of twenty years, became so over¬ 
powering as at one time to threaten to work a complete revo¬ 
lution in the system and policy of Rome. This was Michael de 
Molinos, a Spanish priest who, coming to Rome some years 
before, began to inculcate a method of mystical devotion which 
he had no doubt gathered from the followers of St. Theresa, 
who were regarded with great veneration in Spain, where the 
contemplative devotion which they taught was held in high 
esteem. On his first coming to Rome Molinos refused all 
ecclesiastical advancement, and declined to practise those 
austerities which were so much admired. He associated with 
men of the most powerful minds and of the most elevated 
thoughts, and being acknowledged at once to be a man of 
learning and of good sense, his influence soon became percep¬ 
tible. To all who came to him for spiritual comfort and advice 
he insisted on the importance of mental devotion, of daily 
communion, and of an inward application of the soul to Jesus 
Christ and to His death. So attractive w^ere his personal 
qualities, and so alluring his doctrine, to minds which had 
grown weary of the more formal ceremonies and acts of bodily 
penance and devotion, that thousands thronged his apartments, 
and “ the method of Molinos ” became not only a divine message 
to many, but even the fashionable religion of Rome. 

It spoke to men of an act of devotion, which it called the 
contemplative state, in which the will is so united to God and 
overcome by that union that it adores and loves and resigns 
itself up to Him, and, not exposed to the wavering of the mere 
fancy, nor wearied by a succession of formal acts of a dry 
religion, it enters into the life of God, into the heavenly places 
of Jesus Christ, with an indescribable and secret joy. It 
taught that this rapture and acquiescence in the Divine Will, 
while it is the highest state and privilege of devotion, is within 
the reach of every man, being the fruit of nothing more than 
the silent and humble adoration of God that arises out of a 
pure and quiet mind; and it offered to every man the prospect 
of this communion—a prospect to which the very novelty and 
vagueness gave a hitherto unknown delight—in exchange for 
the common methods of devotion which long use and constant 
repetition had caused to appear to many but as dead and life¬ 
less forms. Those who followed this method generally laid 
aside the use of the rosary, the daily repeating of the breviary, 


270 JOHN INGLESANTj [cHAP. XXV. 

together with the common devotion of the saints, and applied 
themselves to preserve their minds in an inward calm and quiet, 
that they might in silence perform simple acts of faith, and feel 
those inward motions and directions which they believed would 
follow upon such acts. 

To such a doctrine as this, taught by such a man, it is not 
surprising that Inglesant was soon attracted, and he visited 
hlolinos’s rooms several times. On one of these occasions he 
met in the anteroom a gentleman he had seen more than once 
before, but had never spoken to. He w^as therefore somewhat 
surprised when he accosted him, and seemed desirous of some 
private conference. Inglesant knew that he w^as the Count 
Vespiriani, and had heard him described as of a noble and 
refined natm’e, and a hearty follower of Molinos. They left 
the house together, and driving to the gardens of the Borghese 
Palace, they walked for some time. 

The Count began by expressing his pleasure that at so 
early a period of his residence in Rome Inglesant had formed 
the acquaintance of Molinos. 

“You are perhaps,” he said, “not aware of the importance 
of the movement, nor of the extent to which some of us are not 
without hope that it may ultimately reach. Few persons are 
aware of the numbers already devoted to it, including men of 
every rank in the Church and among the nobility, and of every 
variety of opinion and of principle. It cannot be supposed that 
all these persons act thus under the influence of any extraordi¬ 
nary elevation of piety or devotion. To wdiat then can their 
conduct be ascribed 1 It cannot have escaped your notice, since 
you liave been in Italy, that there is much that is rotten in the 
state of government, and to be deplored in the condition of the 
people. I do not know" in what way you may have accounted 
for this lamentable condition of affairs in your own mind; but 
among ourselves (those among us at any rate who are men of 
intelligence and of experience of the life of other countries, and 
especially Protestant ones) there is but one solution—the share 
that priests have in the government, not only in the Pope’s 
territory, but in all the other courts of Italy where they have 
the rule. This does not so much arise from any individual 
errors or misdoing as from the necessary unfitness of ecclesiastics 
to interfere in civil affiiirs. They have not souls large enough 
nor tender enough for government; they are trained in an 


CHAP. XXV.] 


A ROMANCE. 


271 


inflexible code of morals and of conduct from which ihey cannot 
swerve. To this code all human needs must bow. They are 
cut off from sympathy with tlieir fellows on most points; and 
their natural inclinations, which cannot be wholly suppressed, 
are driven into unworthy and mean channels; and they acquire 
a narrowness of spirit and a sourness of mind, together with a 
bias to one side only of life, which does not agree with the 
princi})les of human society. All kinds of incidental evils arise 
from these sources, in stating which I do not wish to accuse 
those ecclesiastics of unusual moral turpitude. Among them 
is the fact that, having individually so short and uncertain a 
time for governing, they think only of the present, and of 
serving their own ends, or satisfying their own conceptions, 
regardless of the ultimate happiness or misery which must be 
the consequence of wliat they do. Whatever advances the 
present interests of the Church or of themselves, for no man is 
free altogether from selfish motives,—whatever enriches the 
Church or their own families, for no man can help interesting 
himself in those of his own house,—is preferred to all wise, 
gi’eat, or generous counsels. You will perhaps w^onder what 
the mystic spiritual religion of Molinos has to do with all this, 
but a moment’s explanation will, I think, make it very clear to 
you. The hold which the priests have upon the civil govern¬ 
ment is maintained solely by the tyranny which they exercise 
over the spiritual life of men. It is the opinion of Molinos 
that this function is misdirected, and that in the place of a 
tyrant there should appear a guide. He is about to publish a 
book called ‘II Guido Spirituale,’ which will appear with 
several approbations before it,—one by the general of the 
Franciscans, who is a Qualificator of the Inquisition, and 
another by a member of the Society to which you are attached, 
Father Martin de Esparsa, also or e of the Qualificators. This 
book, so authorized and recommended, cannot fail not only to 
escape censure, but to exert a poweftiil influence, and will 
doubtless be highly esteemed. Now the importance of Molinos’s 
doctrine lies in this, that he presses the point of frequent com¬ 
munion, and asserts that freedom from mortal sin is the only 
necessary qualification. At the same time he guards himself 
from the charge of innovation by the very title and the whole 
scope of his book, which is to insist upon the necessity of a 
spiritual director and guide. You will see at once what an 


272 


JOHN inglesant; 


[chap. XXV, 


important step is here gained; for the doctrine being once 
admitted that mortal sin only is a disqualification for receiving 
the sacrament, and the necessity of confession before communion 
being not expressed, the obligation of coming always to the 
priest, as the minister of the sacrament of penance, before every 
communion, cannot long be insisted upon. Indeed, it will 
become a rule by which all spiritual persons who adhere to 
Molinos’s method will conduct their penitents, that they may 
come to the sacrament when they find themselves out of the 
state of mortal sin, without going at every time to confession; 
and it is beginning to be observed already in Rome that those 
wdio, under the influence of this method, are becoming more 
strict in their lives, more retired and serious in their mental 
devotions, are become less zealous in their whole deportment 
as to the exterior parts of religion. They are not so assiduous 
at mass, nor in procuring masses for their friends, nor are they 
so frequent at confession or processions. I cannot tell you what 
a blessing I anticipate for mankind should this method be once 
allowed; what a freedom, what a force, what a reality religion 
would obtain ! The time is ripe for it, and the world is pre¬ 
pared. The best men are giving their adherence; I entreat 
you -to lend yoim aid. The Jesuits are wavering; they have 
not yet decided Avhether the new method will prevail or not. 
The least matter will turn the scale. You may think that it 
is of little importance which side you take, but if so, you are 
mistaken. You are not perhaps aware of the high estimation 
in wdiich the reports and letters which have preceded you have 
caused you to be held at the Jesuits’ College. You are sup¬ 
posed to have great influence wdth the English Catholics and 
Protestant Episcopalians, and the idea of promoting Catholic 
progi’ess in England is the dearest to the mind of the Roman 
Ecclesiastic.” 

Inglesant listened ^o the Count attentively, and did not 
immediately reply. At last he said,— 

“What you have told me is of the greatest interest, and 
commends itself to my conscience more than you know. As to 
the present state and government of Italy I am not competent 
to speak. One of the things which I hoped to learn in Rome 
was the answer to some complaints Avhich I have heard in other 
parts of Italy. I fear also that you may be too sanguine as to 
the result of such freedom as you desire. This age is witness 



A ROMANCE. 


273 


CHAP. XXV.] 

of the state to which too much freedom has brought England, 
my own country, a land which, a few years ago, was the happiest 
and wealthiest of all countries, now utterly ruined and laid 
waste. The freedom which you desire, and the position of the 
clergy which you approve, is somewhat the same as that which 
existed in the Protestant Episcopal Chiu’ch of England; but 
the influence they possessed was not sufficient to resist the 
innovations and wild excesses of the Sectaries. The freedom 
which I desire for myself I am willing to renounce when I see 
the evil which the possession of it works among others and in 
the State. What you attempt, however, is an experiment in 
which I am not unwilling to be interested; and I shall be very 
curious to observe the result. The main point of your method, 
the freedom of the blessed sacrament, is a taking piece of doc¬ 
trine, for the holding of which I have always been attracted to 
the Episcopal Church of England. It is, as you say, a point 
of immense importance, upon which, in fact, the whole system 
of the Chmch depends. I have been long seeking for some 
solution of the mysterious difficulties of the religious life. It 
may be that I shall find it in your Society, which I perceive 
already to consist of men of the highest and most select natures, 
with whom, come what may, it is an honour to be allied. You 
may count on my adherence; and though I may seem a half¬ 
hearted follower, I shall not be found wanting when the time 
of action comes. I should wish to see more of Molinos.” 

“ I am not at all surprised,” said the Count, “ that you do 
not at once perceive the full force of what I have said. It 
requires to be an Italian, and to have gTown to manhood in 
Italy, to estimate justly the pernicious influence of the clergy 
upon all ranks of society. I have travelled abroad, and when 
I have seen such a country as Holland, a land divided between 
land and sea, upon which the sun rarely shines, with a cold and 
stagnant air, and liable to be destroyed by inundations: when 
I see this country rich and flourishing, full of people, happy and 
contented, with every mark of plenty, and none at all of want; 
when I see all this, and then think of my own beautiful land, its 
long and happy summers, its rich and fruitful soil, and see it 
ruined and depopulated, its few inhabitants miserable and in 
rags, the scorn and contempt instead of the envy of the world; 
when I think of what she was an age or two ago, and reflect 
upon the means by which such a fall, such a dispeopling, and 

T 


274 


JOHN INGLESANT ; 


[chap. XXV. 


such a poverty, has befallen a nation and a climate like this,— 

I dare not trust myself to speak the words which arise to my 
lips. Those with whom you associate will doubtless endeavour 
to prevent these melancholy truths from being perceived by you, 
but they are too evident to be concealed. Before long you will 
have painful ex[)erience of their existence.” 

“You say,” said Inglesant, “that one or two ages ago Italy 
was much more prosperous than at present; were not the priests 
as powerful then as nowl” 

“I do not deny,” replied the Count, “that there have been 
other causes which have tended to impoverish the country, but 
under a different government many of these might have been 
averted or at any rate mitigated. When the commerce of the 
country was flourishing, the power of the wealthy merchants 
and the trading princes was equal or superior to that of the 
priests, especially in the leading States. As their influence and 
wealth declined, the authority of the clergy increased. A wiser 
policy might have discovered other sources of vrealth and of 
occupation for the people ; they only thought of establishing the 
authority of the Church, of adorning the altars, of filling the 
Papal coffers.” 

Inglesant may have thought that he perceived a weak point 
in this explanation, but he made no reply, and the Coimt sup¬ 
posed he was satisfied. 

A fev/ days afterwards he had the opportunity of a long and 
private conversation with Molinos. 

The Spaniard was a man of tall and graceful exterior, with 
a smile and manner which were indescribably alluring and 
sweet. Inglesant confided to him something of his past history, 
and much of his mental troubles and perplexities. He spoke 
of De Cressy and of the remorse which had followed his rejec¬ 
tion of the life of self-denial which the Benedictine had offered 
him. Molinos’s counsel was gentle and kindly. 

“It was said to me long ago,” said Inglesant, “that ‘there 
are some men born into the world with such happy dispositions 
that the cross for a long time seems very light, if not altogether 
unfelt. The strait path runs side by side with the broad and 
pleasant way of man’s desires; so close are they that the tw'o 
cannot be discerned apart. So the man goes on, the favourite 
seemingly both of God and his fellows; but let him not think 
that he shall always escape the common doom. God is prepar- 


CHAP. XXV.] 


A ROMANCE. 


275 


ing some great test for him, some great temptation, all the more 
terrible for being so long delayed. Let him beware lest his 
spu’itual natme be enervated by so much sunshine, so that when 
the trial comes, he may be unable to meet it. His conscience 
is easier than other men’s : what are sins to them are not so to 
him. But the trial that is prepared for him will be no common 
one : it will be so fitted to his condition that he cannot palter 
with it nor pass it by; he must either deny his God or himself.’ 
This was said to me by one who knew me not; but it was said 
with something of a prophetic instinct, and I see in these words 
some traces of my own fate. For a long time it seemed to me 
that I could serve both the world and God, that I could be a 
courtier in kings’ houses and in the house of God, that I could 
follow the earthly learning and at the same time the learning 
that is from above. But suddenly the chasm opened beneath 
my feet; two ways lay before me, and I chose the broad and 
easy path; the cross was offered to me, and I drew back my 
hand; the winnowing fan passed over the floor, and I was swept 
away vdth the chaff.” 

“ I should prefer to say,” replied the Spaniard,—and as he 
spoke, his expression w^as wonderfully compassionate and urbane, 
—“ I should prefer to say that there are some men whom God 
is determined to win by love. Terrors and chastisements are 
fit for others, but these are the select natures, or, as you have 
yourself termed them, the courtiers of the household of God. 
Believe me, God does not lay traps for any, nor is He mistaken 
in His estimate. If He lavishes favour upon any man, it is 
because he knows that that man’s nature will respond to love. 
It is the habit of kings to assemble in their houses such men 
as will delight them by their conversation and companionshi 2 >, 
^amor ac delicise generis humani,’ whose memory is fresh and 
sweet ages after, when they be dead. Something like this it 
seems to me God is wont to do, that He may win these natures 
for the good of mankind and fur His own delight. It is true 
that such privilege calls for a return; but what will ensure a 
return sooner than the consideration of such favour as this? 
You say you have been unworthy of such favour, and have for¬ 
feited it for ever. You cannot have forfeited it, for it was never 
deserved. It is the kingly grace of God, bestowed on whom 
He will. If I am not mistaken in your case, God will win you, 
and He will win you by determined and uninterrupted acts of 


276 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap. XXV. 


love.’ It may be that in some other place God would have 
found for you other work; you have failed in attaining to that 
place; serve Him where you are. If you fall still lower, or 
imagine that you fall lower, still serre Him in the lowest room 
of all. Wherever you may find youiself, in Courts or pleasure- 
houses or gardens of delight, still serve Him, and you will bid 
defiance to imaginations and powers of evil, that strive to work 
upon a sensitive and excited nature, and to urge it to despair. 
]\[any of these thoughts which we look upon as temptations of 
God are but the accidents of our bodily temperaments. How 
can you, nursed in Courts, delicately reared and bred, trained 
in pleasure, your ear and eye and sense habituated to music and 
soft sounds, to colour and to beauty of fonn, your brain developed 
by intellectual effort and made sensitive to the slightest touch 
—how can religious questions bear the same aspect to you as to 
a man brought up in want of the necessaries of life, hardened by 
toil and exposure, unenlightened by learning and the arts, uncon¬ 
scious of the existence even of what is agony or delight to you 1 
Yet God is equally with both of these; in His different ways 
He will lead both of them, would they but follow, through that 
maze of accident and casualty in which they are involved, and 
out of the tumult of which coil they complain to the Deity of 
what is truly the result of their own temperaments, ancestry, 
and the besetraents of life. I tell you this because I have no 
fear that it will exalt you, but to keep you from unduly depre¬ 
ciating yourself, and from that terrible blasphemy that represents 
God as laying snares for men in the guise of pretended kindness. 
God is Avith all, with the coarse and dull with the refined 
and pure, but He draws them by different means,—those by 
terror, these by love.” 

Inglesant said little in ansAver to these words, but they 
made a deep impression upon him. They lifted a Aveight from 
his spirits, and enabled him henceforward to take some of the 
old pleasure in the light of heaven and the occurrences of life. 
He saw much of Molinos, and had long conferences Avith him 
upon the solution of the greatest of all problems, that of 
granting religious freedom, and at the same time maintaining 
religious tnith. Molinos thought that his system solved this 
problem, and although Inglesant was not altogether convinced 
of this, yet he associated himself heartily, if not wholly, Avith 
the Quietists, as Molinos’s foiloAvers Avere called, insomuch that 


CHAP. XXV.] A ROMANCE. 277 

he received some friendly cautions from the Jesuit College not 
to commit himself too far. 

* * * % * 

It must not be supposed, however, that he was altogether 
absorbed in such thoughts or such pursuits. To him, as to all 
the other inhabitants of Koine, each in his own degree and 
station, the twofold aspect of existence in the strange Papal 
city claimed his alternate regard, and divided his life and his 
intellect. The society of Rome, at one moment devout, the next 
philosophic, the next antiquarian, artistic, pleasure-seeking, im¬ 
parted to all its members some tincture of its Protean character. 
The existence of all was coloured by the many-sided prism 
through which the light of every day’s experience was seen. 
Inglesant’s acquaintance with the Cardinal introduced him at 
once to all the different coteries, and procured him the advan¬ 
tage of a companion who exerted a strong and cultivated mind to 
exhibit each subject in its completest and most fascinating aspect. 
Accompanied by the Cardinal, and with one or other of the 
literati of Rome, each in his turn a master of the peculiar study 
to which the day was devoted, Inglesant wandered day after 
day through all the wonderful city, through the palaces, ruins, 
museums, and galleries. He stood among the throng of statues, 
that strange maze of antique life, which some enchanter’s wand 
seems suddenly to have frozen into marble in the midst of its 
intricate dance, yet so frozen as to retain, by some mysterious 
art, the warm and breathing life. He saw the men of the old 
bm-ied centuries, of the magic and romantic existence when the 
world was young. The beautiful gods with their white wands; 
the gi-ave senators and stately kings; the fauns and satyrs that 
dwelt in the untrodden woods ; the pastoral flute-players, whose 
airs yet linger vdthin the peasant’s reeds ; the slaves and crafts¬ 
men of old Rome, with all their postures, dress, and bearing, as 
they walked those inlaid pavements, buried deep beneath the 
soil, whose mosaic flgures every now and then are opened to the 
faded life of to-day. Nor less entrancing were those quaint 
fancies upon the classic tombs, which showed in what manner 
the old pagan looked out into the spacious ether and confronted 
jeath,—a child playing with a comic masque, bacchanals, and 
wreaths of flowers, hunting parties, and battles, images of life, 
of feasting and desire; and finally, the inverted torch, the 
fleeting seasons ended, and the actor’s part laid down. 


278 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap. XXV. 


Still existing as a background to this phantom life was the 
stage on which it had walked; the ruined splendour of Rome, 
in its setting of blue sky and green foliage, of ivy and creeping 
plants, of laurels and ilex, enfolded in a soft ethereal radiance 
that created everywhere a garden of romance. 

“Nothing delights and entertains me so much in this 
country,” said Inglesant one day to a gentleman with whom he 
was walking, “as the contrasts which present themselves on 
every hand, the peasant’s hut built in the ruins of a palace, the 
most exquisite .carving supporting its tottering roof, cattle 
drinking out of an Emperor’s tomb, a theatre built in a mauso¬ 
leum, and pantomime airs and the ‘ plaudite ’ heard amid the 
awful silence of the grave ; here a Christ, ghastly, naked, on a 
cross; there a charming god, a tender harmony of form and life; 
triumphal arches sunk in the ruins not of their own only, but 
of successive ages, monuments far more of decay and death than 
of glory or fame; Corinthian columns canopied with briers, ivy, 
and wild vine, the delicate acanthus wreaths stained by noisome 
weeds. The thoughts that arise from the sight of these con¬ 
trasts are pleasing though melancholy, such ideas, sentiments, 
and feelings as arise in the mind and in the heart at the foot of 
antique columns, before triumphal arches, in the depths of 
ruined tombs, and on mossy banks of fountains; but there are 
other contrasts which bring no such soothing thoughts with 
them; nothing but what may almost be called despair; pro¬ 
fusion of magnificence and wealth side by side with the utmost 
wretchedness ; Christ’s altar blazing with jewels and marble, 
misery indescribable around; luxury, and enjoyment, and fine 
clothes, almost hustled by rags, and sores, and filth. Amid the 
lesson of past ages, written on every ruined column and shattered 
wall, what a distance still exists between the poor and the rich ! 
Should the poor man wish to overpass it, he is driven back at 
once into his original wretchedness, or condemned more merci¬ 
fully to death, while every ruined column and obelisk cries aloud, 
‘ Let everything that creeps console itself, for everything that 
is elevated falls.’” 

“ We Romans,” said the gentleman, “ preserve our ruins as 
beggars keep open their sores. They are preserved not always 
from taste ; nor from a respect of antiquity, but sometimes from 
mere avarice, for they attract from every corner of the world 
that crowd of strangers whose curiosity has long furnished a 


CHAP. XXV.] 


A ROMANCE. 


279 


maintenance to three-fourths of Italy. But you were speaking 
of the charming gods of the ancients. We are not inferior to 
them. Have you seen the Apollo of Bernini piu*suing Daplme, 
in the Borghese Palace 1 His hair waves in the wind, you hear 
the entreaties of the god.” 

“ Yes, I have seen it,” said Inglesant; “ it is another of 
those wonderful contrasts with which Rome abounds. We are 
Catholic and Pagan at the same time.” 

“ It is true,” said the other; “ nevertheless, in the centre 
of the blood-stained Coliseo stands a crucifix. The Galilean 
has triumphed.” 

Inglesant stopped. They were standing before the Apollo 
in the Belvedere gardens. Inglesant took from beneath his 
vest a crucifix in ivory, exquisitely carved, and held it beside 
the statue of the god. The one the noblest product of buoyant 
life, the proudest perfection of harmonious form, purified from 
all the dross of humanity, the head worthy of the god of day 
and of the lyre, of healing and of help, who bore in his day the 
selfsame name that the other bore, “the great physician;” the 
other, worn and emaciated, helpless, dying, apparently without 
power, forgotten by the world. “ Has the Galilean triumphed ? 
Do you prefer the Christ ?” he said. 

The gentleman smiled. “ The benign god,” he said, “ has 
doubtless many votaries, even now.” 

It is probable tliat the life of Rome was working its effect 
upon Inglesant himself. Under its influence, and that of the 
Cardinal, his tone of thought became considerably modified. In 
a strange and unexpected way, in the midst of so much religion, 
his attention was diverted from the religious side of life, and his 
views of what was philosophically important underwent con¬ 
siderable change. He read Lucretius less, and Terence and 
Ajistophanes more. Human life, as he saw it existing aromid 
him, became more interesting to him than theories and opinions. 
Life in all its forms, the Cardinal assured him, was the only 
study worthy of man; and though Inglesant saw that such a 
general assertion only encouraged the study of human thought, 
yet it seemed to him that it directed him to a truth which he 
had hitherto perhaps overlooked, and taught him to despise and 
condemn nothing in the common path of men in which he 
walked. If this were true, the more carefully he studied this 
common life, and the more narrowly he watched it, the more 


280 


JOHN inglesant; 


[chap. XXV. 


worthy it would appear of regard; the dull and narrow streets, 
the crowded dwellings, the base and vulgar life, the poverty 
and distress of the poorer classes, would assume an interest 
unknown to him before. 

“This life and interest,” the Cardinal would say, “finds its 
best exponent in the old pantomime and burlesque music of 
Italy. The real, everyday, commonplace, human life, which 
originates absolutely among the people themselves, speaks in 
their own music and street airs; but when these are touched 
by a master’s hand, it becomes revealed to us in its essence, 
refined and idealized, with all its human features, which, from 
their very familiarity, escape our recognition as we walk the 
streets. In the peculiarity of this music, its graceful delicacy 
and lively frolic and grotesqueness, I think I find the most 
perfect presentment, to the ear and heart, of human life, especi¬ 
ally as the slightest variation of time or setting reveals in the 
most lively of these airs depths of pathos and melodious sorrow, 
completing thus the analogy of life, beneath the gayest phases 
of which lie unnoticed the saddest realities.” 

“ I have often felt,” said Inglesant, “ that old dance music 
has an inexpressible pathos; as I listen to it I seem to be 
present at long-past festivities, whose very haunts are swept 
away and forgotten; at evenings in the distant past, looked 
forward to as all important, upon whose short and fleeting 
hours the hopes and enjoyments of a lifetime were staked, now 
lost in an undistinguished oblivion and dust of death. The 
young and the beautiful who danced to these quaint measures, 
in a year or two had passed away, and other forms equally 
graceful took their place. Fancies and figures that live in 
sound, and pass before the eyes only when evoked by such 
melodies, float down the shadowy way and pass into the future, 
where other gay and brilliant hours await the young, to be 
followed as heretofore by pale and disappointed hopes and sad 
realities, and the grave.” 

“ What do you mean,” said the Cardinal, “ by figures that 
live in sound 1 ” 

“ It seems to me,” said Inglesant, “ that the explanation 
of the power of music upon the mind is, that many things are 
elements which are not reckoned so, and that sound is one of 
them. As the air and fire are said to be peopled by fairy in¬ 
habitants, as the spiritual man lives in the element of faith, so 


CHAP. XXV.] 


A ROMANCE. 


281 


I believe that there are creatures which live in sound. Every 
lovely fancy, every moment of delight, every thought and thrill 
of pleasure which music calls forth, or which, already existing, 
is beautified and hallowed by music, does not die. Such as these 
become fiiiry existences, spiritual creatures, shadowy but real, 
and of an inexpressibly delicate grace and beauty, which live 
in melody, and float and throng before the sense whenever the 
harmony that gave and maintains their life exists again in sound. 
They are children of the earth, and yet above it; they recall 
the human needs and hopes from which they sprang. They 
have shadowy sex and rank, and diversity of bearing, as of the 
different actors’ parts that fill the stage of life. Poverty and 
want are there, but, as in an allegory or morality, purified and 
released from suftering. The pleasures and delights of past 
ages thus live again in soimd, the sorrows and disappointments 
of other days and of other men mingle with our own, and soften 
and subdue our hearts. Apollo and Ori)heus tamed the savage 
beasts; music will soften our rugged nature, and kindle in us 
a love of our kind and a tolerance of the petty failings and the 
shortcomings of men.” 

It was not only music that fostered and eiicouraged in 
Rome an easy tolerant philosophy. No society could be more 
adapted than that of the Papal city to such an end. A people 
whose physical wants were few and easily supplied (a single 
meal in such a climate, and that easily procured, sufficing for 
the day); a city full of strangers, festivals, and shows; a con¬ 
science absolutely at rest; a community entirely set apart from 
politics, absolutely at one with its government by habit, by in¬ 
terest, and by religion;—constituted a unique state and mental 
atmosphere, in which such philosophy naturally flourished. 
The early hours of the day were spent in such business as was 
necessary for all classes to engage in, and were followed by the 
dinner of fruit, vegetables, fish, and a little meat. ’ From dinner 
all went to sleep, which lasted till six o’clock in the evening. 
Then came an hour’s trifling over the toilette, all business was 
at an end, and all the shops were shut. Till three o’clock in 
the morning the hours were devoted to enjoyment. Men, 
women, and children repaired to the public walks, to the Corso 
and squares, to conversation in coteries, to assemblies in arcaded 
and lighted gardens, to collations in taveras. Even the gravest 
and most serious gave themselves iqi to relaxation and amuse- 


282 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap. XXV. 


ment till the next day. Every evening was a festival; every 
variety of character and conversation enlivened these delicious 
hours, these soft and starry nights. 

Nothing pleased Inglesant’s fancy so much, or soothed his 
senses so completely, as this second dawn of the day and rising 
to pleasure in the cool evening. Soothed and calmed by sleep, 
the irritated nerves were lulled into that delicious sense for 
which we have no name, but which we compare to flowing 
water, and to the moistening of a parched and dusty drought. 
All thoughts of trouble and of business were banished by the 
intervening hours of forgetfulness, from which the mind, half- 
aroused and fresh from dreamland, awoke to find itself in a 
world as strange and fantastic as the land of sleep which it had 
left; a land bathed in sunset light, overarched by rainbows, 
saluted by cool zephyrs, soothed by soft strains of music, de¬ 
lighted and amused by gay festivals, peopled by varied crowds 
of happy folk, many-coloured in dress, in green walks spark¬ 
ling with fairy lamps, and seated at al fresco suppers, before 
cosy taverns fomous for delicious wines, where the gossip of 
Europe, upon which Rome looked out as from a Belvedere, 
intrigue, and the promotions of the morning, were discussed. 

Inglesant had taken lodgings in an antique villa on the 
Aventine, surrounded by an uncultivated garden and by vine¬ 
yards. The house was partly deserted and partly occupied by 
a family of priests, and he slept here when he was not at the 
Cardinal’s palace, or with other of his friends. The place was 
quiet and remote from the throng and noise of Rome; in the 
gardens were fountains in the cool shade; frescoes and paint¬ 
ings had been left on the walls and in the rooms by the owner 
of the villa; the tinkling of convent bells sounded from the 
slopes of the hills through the laurels and ilex and across the 
vines; every now and then the chanting of the priests might 
be heard from' a small Chapel at the back of the house. 

Inglesant awoke from his mid-day sleep one evening to the 
splash of the fountain, and the scent of the fresh-turned earth 
in the vineyard, and found his servant arranging his room for 
his toilette. He was to sup that evening at the Cardinal’s with 
some of the Fathers of the Oratory, and he dressed, as was 
usual with him even in his most distracted moods, with scrupu¬ 
lous care. A sedan was waiting for him, and he set out for 
the Cardinal’s palace. 



CHAP. XXV.] 


A ROMANCE. 


283 


It was a brilliant evening; upon the hill-sides the dark 
trees stood out against the gofden sky, the domes and pinnacles 
of the Churches shone in the evening light. In the quiet lanes, 
in the neighbourhood of t^je Aventine, the perfume of odorifer¬ 
ous trees was wafted over lofty garden walls ; quiet figures 
flitted to and fro, a distant hum of noisy streets scarcely reached 
the ear, mingled witli the never-ceasing bells. That morning, 
before he went to sleep, Inglesant had been reading “ The 
Birds” of Aristophanes, with a voluminous commentaiy by 
some old scholar, who had brought together a mass of various 
learning up6n the subject of grotesque apologue, fable, and the 
fanciful representation of the facts and follies of human life 
under the characters of animals and of inanimate objects. A 
vast number of examples of curious pantomime and other stage 
characters were given, and the idea preserved throughout that, 
by such impersonations, the voices of man’s existence were able 
to speak with clearness and pathos, and were more sure of being 
listened to than when they assumed the guise of a teacher or 
divine. Beneath a grotesque and unexpected form they conceal 
a gravity more sober than seriousness itself, as irony is more 
sincere than the solemnity which it parodies. Truth drops 
her stilted gait, and becomes natural and real, in the midst of 
ludicrous and familiar events. The broad types of life’s players 
into which the race is divided, especially the meanest,—thieves, 
beggars, outcasts,—with whom life is a reality stripped of out¬ 
ward show, will carry a moral and a teaching more aptly than 
the privileged and affected classes. Mixed with these are 
animals and familiar objects of household life, to which every¬ 
day use has given a character of their own. These, not in the 
literal repulsiveness or dulness of their monotonous existence, 
buf abstracted, as the types or emblems of the ideas associated 
with each one—not a literal beggar, in his dirt and loathsome¬ 
ness, but poverty, freedom, helplessness, and amusing knavery, 
personified in the part of a beggar—not a mere article of house¬ 
hold use in its inanimate stupidity, but every idea and associa¬ 
tion connected with the use of such articles by generations of 
men and women ;—these and such as these, enlivened by the 
sparkle of genius, set forth in gay and exquisite music, and by 
brilliant repartee and witty dialogue, certainly cannot be far 
behind the very foremost delineation of human life. 

Educated in the Court of King Charles to admire Shake- 



284 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap. XXV. 


speare and the Elizabethan stage, Inglesant was better able to 
iiiiderstaiul these things than the Italians were, suggestive as 
the Italian life itself was of such reflections. The taste for 
music and scenery had driven dialogue and character from the 
stage. Magnificent operas, performed by exquisite singers, and 
accompanied by mechanical effects of stupendous extent, were 
almost the only scenic performances fashionable in Italy; but 
this was of le^s consequence where every street was a stage, 
and every festival an elaborate play. The Italians were panto¬ 
mimic and dramatic in the highest degree without perceiving it 
themselves. The man who delights in regarding ^lis life as a 
stage cannot attach an overwhelming importance to any inci¬ 
dent ; he observes life as a spectator, and does not engage in it 
as an actor; but the Italian was too impetuous to do this—he 
took too violent an interest in the events themselves. 

The narrow streets through which Inglesant’s chair passed 
terminated at last in a wide square. It was full of confused 
figures, presenting to the eye a dazzling movement of form and 
colour, of which last, owing to the evening light, the prevailing 
tint was blue. A brilliant belt of sunset radiance, like molten 
gold along the distant horizon, threw up the white houses into 
strong relief. Dark cypress trees rose against the glare of the 
yellow sky, tinged with blue from tlie fathomless azure above. 
The white spray of fountains flashed high over the heads of 
the people in the four corners of the square, and long lance-like 
gleams of light shot from behind the cypresses and the white 
houses, refracting a thousand colours in the flashing water. A 
murmur of gay talk filled the air, and a constant change of 
varied form perplexed the eye. 

Inglesant alighted from his chair, and, directing his servants 
to proceed at once to the Cardinal’s, crossed the square on foot. 
Following so closely on his previous dreamy thoughts, he was 
intensely interested and touched by this living pantomime. 
Human life had never before seemed to him so worthy of 
regard, Avhether looked at as a whole, inspiring noble and 
serious reflections, or viewed in detail, when each separate 
atom appears pitiful and often ludicrous. The infinite distance 
between these two poles, between the aspirations and the ex¬ 
hortations of conscience, which have to do with humanity as 
a whole, and the actual circumstances and capacities of the in¬ 
dividual, with which satirists and humourists have ever made 


CHAP. XXV.] 


A ROMANCE. 


285 


free to jest,—this contrast, running through every individual 
life as well as through the mass of existence, seemed to him to 
be the true field of humour, and the real science of those 
“ Humanities ” which the schools pedantically professed to 
teach. 

Nothing moved in the motley crowd before him but what 
illustrated this science,—the monk, the lover, the soldier, the 
improvisatore, the matron, the young girl; here the childish 
hand brandishing its toy, there the artisan, and the shop-girl, 
and the maid-servant, seeking such enjoyment as their coiifinecl 
life afforded ; the young boyish companions with interlaced 
arms, the benignant priest, every now and then the stately 
carriage slowly passing by to its place on the Corso, or to the 
palace or garden to which its inmates were bound. 

Wandering amid this brilliant phantasia of life, Inglesant’s 
heart smote him for the luxurious sense of pleasure which he 
found himself taking in the present movement and aspect of 
things. Doubtless this human philosophy, if we may so call 
it, into which he was drifting, has a tendency, at least, very 
diflferent from much of the teaching which is the same in every 
school of religious thought. Love of mankind is inculcated as 
a sense of duty by every such school; but by this is certainly 
not intended love of and acquiescence in mankind as it is. This 
study of human life, however, this love of human existence, is 
unconnected with any desire for the improvement either of 
the individual or of the race. It is man as he is, not man as 
he might be, or as he should be, which is a delightful subject 
of contemplation to this tolerant philosophy which human 
frailty finds so attractive. Man’s failings, his self-inflicted 
miseries, his humours, the eftect of his very crimes and vices, 
if not even those vices themselves, form a chief part in the 
changing drama upon which the student’s eyes are so eagerly 
set, and without these it would lose its interest and attraction. 
A world of perfect beings would be to such a man of all things 
the most stale and unprofitable. Humour and pathos, the 
grotesque contrast between a man’s aspirations and his actual 
condition, his dreams and his mean realities, would be altogether 
wanting in such a world. Indignation, sorrow, satire, doubt, 
and restlessness, allegory, the very soul and vital salt of life, 
would be wanting in such a world. But if a man does not 
desire a perfect world, what part can he have in the Christian 




286 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap. XXV. 


warfare T It is true that an intimate study of a world of sin 
and of misfortune throws up the sinless character of the Saviour 
into strong relief; but the student accepts this Saviour’s char¬ 
acter and mission as part of the phenomena of existence, not 
as an irreconcilable crusade and battle-cry against the powers 
of the world on every hand. The study of life is indeed equally 
possible to both schools; but the pleased acquiescence in life 
as it is, with all its follies and hintastic pleasures, is surely 
incompatible with following the footsteps of tlie Divine Ascetic 
who trod the wine-press of the wrath of God. With all their 
errors, they who rejected the world and all its allurements, and 
tauglit the narrow life of painful self-denial, must be more 
nearly riglit than this. 

Nevertheless, even before this last thought was completely 
formed in his mind, the sigiit of the moving people, and of the 
streets of tlie wonderful city opening out on every side, full of 
palaces and glittering shops and stalls, and crowded with life 
and gaiety, turned his halting choice back again in the opposite 
direction, and he thought something like this ;— 

“ How useless and even pitiful is the continued complaint 
of moralists and divines, to whom none lend an ear, whilst they 
endeavour, age after age, to check youth and pleasure, and turn 
the current of life and nature backward on its course. For how 
many ages in this old Rome, as in every other city, since Terence 
gossiped of the city life, has this frail faulty humanity for a few 
hours sunned itself on warm afternoons in sheltered walks and 
streets, and comforted itself into life and pleasure, amid all its 
cares and toils and sins. Out of this shifting phantasmagoria 
comes the sound of music, always pathetic and sometimes gay : 
amid the roofs and belfries peers the foliage of the public walks, 
the stage upon which, in every city, life may be studied and 
taken to heart; not far from these walks is, in every city, the 
mimic stage, the glass in which, in every age and climate, 
human life has seen itself reflected, and has delighted, beyond 
all other pleasures, in pitying its own sorrows, in learning its 
own story, in watching its own fantastic developments, in fore¬ 
shadowing its own fate, in smiling sadly for an hour over the 
still more fleeting representation of its own fleeting joys. For 
ever, without any change, the stream flows on, spite of moralist 
and divine, the same as when Phaedria and Thais loved each 
other in old Rome. We look back on these countless ages of 


CHAP. XXV.] 


A ROMANCR 


287 


city life, cooped in narrow streets and alle3^s and paved walks, 
breathing itself in fountained courts and shaded arcades, where 
youth and manhood and old age have sought their daily suste¬ 
nance not only of bread but of happiness, and have with difficulty 
and toil enough found the one and caught fleeting glimpses of 
the other, between the dark thunder clouds, and under the 
weird, wintry sky of many a life. Within such a little space 
how much life is crowded, what high hopes, how much pain ! 
From those high windows behind the flower-pots young girls 
have looked out upon life, which their instincts told them was 
made for pleasure, but which year after year convinced them 
was, somehow or other, given over to pain. How can we read 
this endless story of humanity with any thought of blame? 
How can we watch this restless quivering human life, this 
ceaseless effort of a finite creature to attain to those things 
which are agreeable to its created nature, alike in all countries, 
under all climates and skies, and whatever change of garb or 
semblance the long course of years may bring, with any other 
thought tlian that of tolerance and pity—tolerance of every sort 
of city existence, pity for every kind of toil and evil, year after 
year repeated, in every one of earth’s cities, full of human 
life and handicraft, and thought and love and pleasure, as 
in the streets of that old Jerusalem over which the Saviour 
wept ?” 

* % % * * 

The conversation that evening at th.e Cardinal’s villa turned 
upon the antiquities of Rome. The chief delight of the Fathers 
of the Oratory was in music, but the Cardinal preferred conver¬ 
sation, especially upon Pagan literature and art. He was an 
enthusiast upon every subject connected with the Greeks,—art, 
])oetry, philosophy, religion; upon all these he founded theories 
and deductions which showed not only an intimate acquaintan(*,e 
with Greek literature, but also a deep familiarity with the 
human heart. A lively imagination and eloquent and polished 
utterance enabled him to extract from the baldest and most 
obscure myths and fragments of antiquity much that was 
fascinating, and, being founded on a true insight into human 
nature, convincing also. 

Inglesant especially sympathized with and understood the 
tone of thought and the line of reasoning with which the Car¬ 
dinal regarded Pagan antiquity; and this appreciation pleased 


288 JOHN INGLESANT ; [chap. xxy. 

the Cardinal, and caused him to address much of his conversa¬ 
tion directly to him. 

The villa was full of objects by which thought and conver¬ 
sation were attracted to such channels. The garden was 
entered, by a portico or door-case adorned with ancient statues, 
the volto or roof of which was painted with classic subjects, 
and the lofty doors themselves were covered with similar ones 
in relief. The walls of the house, towards the garden, were 
cased with bas-reliefs,—“ antique incrustations of history ” tlie 
Cardinal called them,—representing the Eape of Europa, of 
Leda, and other similar scenes. These antique stones and 
carvings were fitted into the walls between the rich pilasters 
and cornicing which adorned the front of the villa, and the 
whole was crossed with tendrils of citron and other flowering 
shrubs, trained with the utmost art and nicety, so as to soften 
and ornament without concealing the sculpture. The gardens 
were traversed by high hedges of myrtle, lemon, orange, and 
juniper, interspersed with mulberry trees and oleanders, and 
were planted with wide beds of brilliant flowers, according to 
the season, now full of anemones, ranunculuses, and crocuses. 
The whole was formed upon terraces, fringed with balustrades 
of marble, over which creeping plants were trained with the 
utmost skill, only leaving sufficient stone-work visible to relieve 
the foliage. The walks were full of statues and pieces of carving 
in relief. The rooms were ornamented in the same taste, and 
the chimney of the one in which the supper was laid was en¬ 
riched with sculpture of wonderful grace and delicacy. 

One of the Fathers of the Oratory asked Inglesant whether 
he had seen the Venus of the Medicean palace, and what he 
thought of it compared with the Venus of the Farnese; and 
when he had replied, the other turned to the Cardinal and 
inquired whether, in his opinion, the Greeks had any higher 
meaning or thought in these beautiful delineations of human 
form than mere admiration and pleasure. 

“ The higher minds among them assuredly,” said tlie 
Cardinal; “but in another and more important sense eveiy 
one of them, even the most unlettered peasant who gazed upon 
the work, and the most worldly artist buried in the mere out¬ 
ward conceptions of his art, were consciously or unconsciously 
following, and even worshipping, a divinity and a truth than 
which nothing can be higher or more universal. For the truth 


CHAP. XXV.] 


A ROMANCE. 


289 


was too powerful for them, and so universal that they could not 
escape. Human life, in all the phases of its beauty and its 
deformity, is so instinct with the divine nature, that, in merely 
following its variety, you are learning the highest lessons, and 
teaching them to others.” 

“ What may you understand by being instinct with the 
divine nature 1” said the Priest, not unnaturally. 

“I mean that general consensus and aggregate of truth in 
which human nature and all that is related to it is contained. 
That divine idea, indeed, in which all the facts of human life 
and experience are drawn together, and exalted to their utmost 
perfection and refinement, and are seen and felt to form a whole 
of surpassing beauty and nobleness, in which the divine image 
and plastic power in man is clearly discerned and intellectually 
received and appropriated.” 

The Priest did not seem altogether to understand this, and 
remained silent. 

“ But,” said Inglesant, “much of this pursuit of the beauti¬ 
ful must have been associated, in the ideas of the majority of 
the people, with thoughts and actions the most unlovely and 
undesirable according to the intellectual reason, however de¬ 
lightful to the senses.” 

“ Even in these orgies,” replied the Cardinal, “ in the most 
profligate and wild excesses of license, I see traces of this all- 
pervading truth ; for the renouncing of all bound and limit is 
in itself a truth, when any particular good, though only sensual, 
is freed and perfected. This is, no doubt, what the higher 
natures saw, and it was this that reconciled them to the license 
of the people and of the unilluminated. In all these aberrations 
they saw ever fresh varieties and forms of that truth which, 
when it was intellectually conceived, it was their greatest: 
enjoyment to contemplate, and which, no doubt, formed the 
material of the instructions which the initiated into the mysteries 
received. It is impossible that tips could be otherwise, for there 
can be no philosophy if there, be no human life from which to 
derive it. The intellectual existence and discourses of Socrates 
cannot be understood, except when viewed in connection with 
tim sensual and common existence and carnal wisdom of Aristo¬ 
phanes, any more than the death of the one can be understood 
pdtliont we also understand the popular thought and feeling 
delineated to us by the other. And why should we be so uu- 

U 


290 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap. XXV, 


grateful as to turn round on this ‘beast within the man/ if you 
so choose to call it,—the human body and human delight to 
which ^ve owe not only our own existence and all tliat makes 
life desirable, but also that very loftiness and refinement of 
soul, that elevated and sublime philosophy, which could not 
exist but for the contrast and antithesis which popular life 
presents ? Surely it is more philosophical to take in the whole 
of life, in every possible form, than to shut yourself up in one 
doctrine, which, while you fondly dream you have created it, 
and that it is capable of self-existence, is dependent for its very 
being on that human life from which you have fled, and which 
you despise. This is the whole secret of the pagan doctrine, 
and the key to those profound views of life which were evolved 
in their religion. This is the worship of Priapus, of human 
life, in which nothing comes amiss or is to be staggered at, 
however voluptuous or sensual, for all things are but varied 
manifestations of life; of life, ruddy, delicious, full of fruits, 
basking in sunshine and plenty, dyed with the juice of grapes; 
of life in valleys cooled by snowy peaks, amid vineyards and 
shady fountains, among which, however, ‘Ssepe Faunorum voces 
exauditoe, ssepe vism formae Deornm.’” 

“ This, Signore Inglesaiit,” said the Priest, passing the wine 
across the table, with a smile, “is somewhat even beyond the 
teaching of your friends of the Society of the Gesu ; and would 
make their doctrine even, excellently as it already suits that 
purpose, still more.propitious towards the frailty of men.” 

Inglesant filled his glass, and drank it off before he replied. 
The wine was of the finest growth of the delicious Alban vine¬ 
yards ; and as the nectar coursed through his veins, a luxurious 
sense of acquiescence stole over him. The warm air, laden with 
perfume from the shaded windows, lulled his sense; a stray 
sunbeam lighted the piles of fruit and the deeply embossed gold 
of the service on the table before him, and the mellow paintings 
and decorated ceiling of the room. As he slowly drank his 
wine the memory of Serenus de Cressy, and of his doctrine of 
human life, rose before his mind, and his eyes were fixed upon 
the deep-coloured wir e before him, as though he saw there, as 
jn a magiQ goblet, tho opposing powers that divide the world. 
It seemed to him that he had ranounced his right to join in the 
conflict, and that he must remain as ever a mere speptator of 
the result; nevertheless lie said,—. ■' ' ^ ' 


CHAP. XXV.] A ROJTANCE. 291 

“Your doctrine is delig:htfnl to the philosopher and to the 
man of culture, who has his nature under the curb, and his 
I glance firmly fixed upon the goal; but to the vulgar it is death ; 

and indeed it was death until the voice of another God was 
j heard, and tlie form of another God was seen, not in vineyards 
j and rosy bowers, but in deserts and stony places, in dens and 
caves of the earth, and in prisons and on crosses of wood.” 

! “ It is treason to the idea of cultured life,” said the Cardinal, 

; “to evoke such gloomy images. My theory is at least free 
from such faults of taste.” 

“Do not fear me,” said Inglesant; “I have no right to 
preach such a lofty religion. An asceticism I never practised 
it would ill become me to advocate.” 

“You spoke of the death of Socrates,” said the Priest; 
“ does this event fall within the all-embracing tolerance of your 
I theory ?” 

“The death of Socrates,” said the Cardinal, “appears to 
have been necessary to preserve the framework of ordinary 
everyday society from falling to pieces. At any rate men of 
good judgment in that day thought so, and they must have 
I known best. You must remember that it was Socrates that 
I was put to death, not Plato, and we must not judge by what 
the latter has left us of what the former taught. The doctrine 
of Socrates was purely negative, and undermined the principle 
of belief not only in the Gods but in everything else. His 
dialectic was excellent and noble, his purpose pure and exalted, 
the clearing of men’s minds of false impressions ; but to the 
I common fabric of society his method was destruction. So he 
I was put to death, unjustly of course, and contrary to the highest 
law, but according to the lower law of expediency, justly; for 
society must preserve itself even at the expense of its noblest 
thinkers. But,” added the Cardinal with a smile, “we have 
only to look a little way for a parallel. It is not, however, a 
perfect one; for while the Athenians condemned Socrates to a 
death painless and dignified, the moderns have burnt Servetus, 
whose doctrine contained nothing dangerous to society, but 
turned on a mere point of the schools, at the stake.” 

“Why do they not burn you, CardinaU” said one of the 
Oratorians, who had not yet spoken, a very intimate friend of 
the master of the house. 

“They do not know whom to begin with in Eome,” ha 




JOHN INGLESANT; 


202 


[chap. XXV. 


replied; “if they once commenced to burn, the holocaust would 
be enormous before the sacrifice was complete.’’ 

“ I would they would burn Donna Olympia,” said the same 
Priest; “is it true that she has returned'?” 

“Have patience,” said the Cardinal; “from what I hear 
you will not have long to wait.” 

“I am glad you believe in purgatory,” said the Priest who 
had spoken first. “ I did not know that your Eminence wa^ so 
orthodox.” 

“You mistake. I do not look so far. I am satisfied with 
the purgatory of this life. I merely meant that I fear we shall 
not long have his Holiness among us.” 

“ The moilerns have burnt others besides Servetiis,” said one 
of the guests—“ Vaninus, for instance.” 

“I did not instance Vaninus,” said the Cardinal, “because 
his punishment was more justifiable, and nearer to that of 
Socrates. Vaninus taught atheism, which is dangerous to 
society, and he courted his death. I suppose, Mr. Inglesant, 
that your bishops would birrn Mr. Hobbes if they dared.” 

“ I know little of the Anglican bishops, Eminence,” replied 
Inglesant; “ but from that little I should imagine that it is 
not impossible.” 

“What does Mr. Hobbes teach?” said one of the party. 

The Cardinal looked at Inglesant, who shook his head. 

“ What he teaches would require more skill than I possess 
to explain. What they would say that they bimnt him for 
would be for teaching atheism and the universality of matter. 
I fancy that it is at least doubtful whether even Vaninus meant 
to deny the existence of God. I have been told that he was 
merely an enthusiastic naturalist, who could see nothing but 
nature, which was his god. But as for- Mr. Hobbes’s opinions, 
he seems to me to have proclaimed a third authority in addition 
to the two which already claimed the allegiance of the -world. 
We had first the authority of a Church, then of a book, now 
Mr. Hobbes asserts the authority of reason; and the supporters 
of the book, even more fiercely than those of the Church, raise 
a clamour against him. His doctrines are very insidiously and 
cautiously expressed, and it proves the acuteness of the Anglican 
divines that they have detected, under the plausible reasoning of 
Mr. Hobbes, the basis of a lo,gical argument which would, if un- 
coiifuted, destroy the authority of Holy Scripture.” 


CHAP. XXVI.] 


A ROMANCE. 


293 


The Cardinal looked at Inglesant curiously, as though un¬ 
certain whether he was speaking in good faith or not, hut the 
subject did not seem to possess great interest to the company at 
table, and the conversation took another tinn. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

Some few days after the conversation at the Cardinal’s villa, 
Inglesant received his first commission as an agent of the 
Society of the Gesu. He was invited to sup with the Superior 

of the English Jesuits, Father -, at the college called St. 

Thomasso degli Inglesi. After the meal, over which nothing 
was spared to render it delicious, and during the coinse of 
which the Superior exerted himself to please, the latter said,— 
“ I am instructed to offer you a commission, which, if I 
mistake not, will both prove very interesting to you, and will 
also be of advantage to your interests. Yon are probably 
acquainted with the story of the old Duke of Umbria. You 
have heard that, wearied with age, and tired of the world, he 
resigned the dukedom to his son, his only child, the object of 
all his hopes and the fruit of carefid training and instruction. 
This son, far from realizing the brilliant hopes of his father, 
indulged in every kind of riot and debauchery, and finally died 
young, worn out before his time. The old Duke, broken-hearted 
by this blow, has virtually made over the succession to the 
Holy Father, and lives now, alone and silent, in his magnificent 
palace, caring for no worldly thing, and devoting all his thoughts 
to rexigion and to his approaching end. He is unhappy in the 
prospect of his dissolution, and the only persons who are ad¬ 
mitted to his presence are those who promise him any comfort 
in the anticipation, or any clearness in the vision, of the future 
life. Quacks and impostors of every kind, priests and monks 
and fanatics, are admitted freely, and trouble this miserable old 
man, and drive him into intolerable despair. To give to this 
old man, whose life of probity, of honoiu*, of devotion to his 
people, of conscientious rectitude, is thus miserably rewarded— 
to give some comfort to this miserable victim-of a jealousy 
which the superstitious miscall that of heaven, is a mission 
>vhich the ethereal chivalry of the soul wiU eagerly embrace. 





294 


JOHN INGLESANT ; 


[chap. XXVI. 


It is one, I may say without flattery, for which I hold you 
singularly fitted. A passionate religious fervour, such as yours, 
combined in the most singular manner with the freest specula¬ 
tive opinions, and commended by a courteous grace, will at once 
soothe and strengthen this old man’s shattered intellect, dis¬ 
tracted and tormented and rapidly sinking into imbecility and 
dotage.” 

Father- paused and filled his glass; then passing the 

wine to Inglesant, he continued, half carelessly,— 

“ I said that the Duke had virtually made over the succes¬ 
sion of his State to the Papal See; but this has not been for¬ 
mally ratified, and there has arisen some hesitation and difiiculty 
respecting it. Some of the unsuitable advisers to whom the 
Duke in his mental weakness has unfortunately lent an ear, 
have endeavoured to persuade him that the interests of his 
people Vvdll be imperilled by their country being placed under 
the mild and beneficent rule of the Holy Father. We hear 
something of a Lutheran, Avho, by some unexplained means, has 
obtained considerable influence with this unhappy old man; and 
we are informed that there is great danger of the Duke’s hesi¬ 
tating so long before he completes the act of succession, thai 
his death may occur before it is comjjlete. You will of com*s( 
exert the influence which I hope and expect that you will soon 
gain at the ducal Court, to hasten this consummation, so desir 
able for the interests of the people, of the Papacy, and of the 
Duke himself.” 

Inglesant had listened to this communication with great in¬ 
terest. The prospect which the earlier part of it had opened 
before him was in many respects an attractive one, and the flatter¬ 
ing words of the Superior were uttered in a tone of sincerity which 
made them very pleasant to hear. The description of the Duke’s 
condition offered to him opportunities of mental study of absorb¬ 
ing interest, and the characters of those by whom he was sur¬ 
rounded would no doubt present combinations and varieties of 
singular and unusual curiosity. It must not be denied, more¬ 
over, that there entered into his estimate of the proposal made 
to him somewhat of the prospect of luxurious and courtly life— 
of that soft clothing, both of body and spirit, which they who 
live in kings’ -houses wear. It is difficult indeed for one who 
has been long accustomed to refined and dainty living, where 
every sense is trained and strengthened by the fruition it enjoys 



CHAP. XXVI.] 


A ROMANCK 


295 


to regard the future altogether with indifference in lespect to 
these things. The palace of the Duke "was notorious through¬ 
out all Italy for the treasures of art which it contained, though 
its master in his old age was become indifferent to such delights. 
But though these thoughts passed through his mind as the 
Superior was speaking, Inglesant was too well versed in the 
ways of Courts and Ecclesiastics not to know that there was 
something more to come, and to attend carefully for its develop¬ 
ment. The latter part of the Superior’s speech produced some¬ 
thing even of a pleasurable amusement, as the skilfully executed 
tactics of an opponent are pleasing to a good player either at 
cards or chess. The part which he was now expected to play, 
the side which he was about to espouse, taken in connection 
with the difficulties and impressions which had perplexed him 
since he had arrived in Italy, and which had not been removed 
by what he had seen in Kome itself, corresponded so exactly 
W’ith the scheme which, to his excited imagination, was being 
spiritually developed for his destruction—a morbid idea, possibly, 
which the lofty teieficence of Molinos’s doctrine had only par¬ 
tially removed—that its appearance and recognition actually 
provoked a smile. But the smile, which the Superior noticed 
and entirely misunderstood, was succeeded by uneasiness and 
depression. There was, however, little hesitation and no ap- 
]Darent delay in Inglesant’s manner of acceptance. The old 
habit of implicit obedience was far from obliterated or even 
weakened, and though Father St. Clare was not present the 
supreme motive of his influence was not unfelt. He had chosen 
his part when in Paris he had turned his back upon De Cressy, 
and accepted the Jesuit’s offer of the mission to Rome. He had 
lived in Rome, had been received and countenanced and enter¬ 
tained as one who had accepted the service of those who had 
so courteously and hospitably treated him, and it was far too late 
now, when the first return was expected of him, to draw back or 
to refuse. To obey was not only a recognized duty, it was an 
instinct which not only long training but experience even served 
to strengthen. He assured the Superior that he w^as perfectly 
ready to set out. He assure^ himself indeed that it was not 
necessary to come to a decision at that moment, and that he 
should be much better able to decide upon his course of conduct 
wheii he had seen the Duke himself, and received more full 
iiistructioiis from Rome. 



296 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[CHAP. xxvr. 


The Superior informed Inglesant that he would be expected 
to visit Umbria as a gentleman of station, and offered to pro¬ 
vide the necessary means. Inglesant contented himself with 
declining this offer for the present. Since his arrival at Rome 
he had received considerable sums of money from England, the 
result of Lady Cardiff’s bounty, and the Cardinal’s purse was 
open to him in several indirect ways. He provided himself 
with the necessary number of servants, horses, and other con¬ 
veniences, and some time, as would appear, after Easter, he 
arrived at Umbria. 

On his journey, as he rode along in the wonderful clear 
morning light, in his “osteria” in the middle of the day, and 
when he resumed his journey in the cool of the evening, his 
thoughts had been very busy. He remembered his conversation 
with the Count Vespiriani, and was unable to reconcile his .pre¬ 
sent mission with the pledge he had given to the Count. He 
was more than once inclined to turn back and refuse to under¬ 
take the duty demanded of him. Thoughts of Lauretta, and 
of the strange fate that had separated him from her, also 
occupied his mind; and with these conflicting emotions still 
unreconciled, he saw at last the white fagade of the palace 
towering above the orange-groves, and the houses and pinnacles 
of the city. 

The ducal palace at Umbria is a magnificent example of 
the Renaissance style. It is impossible to dwell in or near this 
wonderful hoiTse without the life becoming affected, and even 
diverted from its previous course, by its imperious influence. 
The cold and mysterious power of the classic aichitectiue is 
wedded to the rich and libertine fiincy of the Renaissance, 
treading unrestrained and unabashed the maze of nature and of 
phantasy, and covering the classic purity of outline with its 
exquisite tracery of fairy life. Over door and window and 
pilaster throng and cling the arabesque carvings of foliage and 
fruit, of graceful figures in fantastic forms and positions,—all of 
infinite variety; all full of originality, of life, of motion, and of 
character; all of exquisite beauty both of design and workman¬ 
ship. The effect of the wdiole is lightness and joy, while the 
eye is eliarmed and the sense filled with a luxurious satisfaction 
at the abounding wealth of beauty and lavish imagination. 
But together with this delight to eye and -sense there is present 
to the mind a feeling, not altogether painless, of oppressive 


A ROaiANCE, 


297 


CHAP. XXVI.] 

luxury, and of the mating of incongruous forms, arousing as it 
were an uneasy conscience, and affecting the soiil somewhat as 
the overpowering perfume of tropical vegetation affects the 
senses. To dwell in this palace was to breathe an enchanted 
air; and as the wandering priuce of story loses his valour and 
strength in the magic castles into which he strays, so here the 
indweller, whose intellect was mastered by the genius of the 
architecture, found his simplicity impaired, his taste becoming 
more sensuous and less severely chaste, and his senses lulled 
and charmed, by the insidious and enervating sjnrit that per¬ 
vaded the place. 

At his fii*st presentation Inglesant found the Duke seated 
in a small room fitted as an oratory or closet, and opening by a 
private door into the ducal pew in the Chapel. His person was 
bowed and withered by age and grief, but his eye was clear and 
piercing, and his intellect apj^arently unimpaired. He regarded 
his visitor with an intense and scrutinizing gaze, which lasted 
for several minutes, and seemed to indicate some suspicion. 
There was, however, about Inglesant’s ap*pearance and manner 
something so winning and attractive, that the old man’s eyes 
gradually softened, and the expression of distrust that made his 
look almost that of a wild and hunted creature, changed to one 
of comparative satisfaction and repose. It is true that he 
regarded with pleasure and hope every new-comer, from whom 
he expected to derive consolation and advice. 

Inglesant exjiected that he woidd impure of the news of 
Rome, of the Pope’s health, and such-like matters; but he 
seemed to have no curiosity concerning such things. After 
waiting for some time in silence he said,— 

“Anthony Guevera tells us that we ought to address men 
who are under thirty with ‘ You are welcome,’ or ‘ You come in 
a good hour,’ because at that time of life they seem to be coming 
into the world; from thirty to fifty we ought to greet them 
with kGod keep you,’ or ‘Stand in a good hour;’ and from 
fifty onwards, with ‘ God speed you,’ or ‘ Go in a good hour,’ 
for from thence they go taking their leave of the world. The 
first is easy to say, and the wish not unlikely to be fulfilled, 
but the last who shall ensure ? You come in a good hour, 
graceful as an Apollo, to comfort a miserable old man ; can you 
assure me that, when I pass out of this world, I shall depart 
likewise at a propitious time? I am au old man, and that 




298 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


CHAP. XXVI. 


unseen world which should be so familiar and near to me seems 
so far off and yet so terrible. A young man steps into life as 
into a dance, confident of his welcome, pleased himself and 
pleasing others; the stage to which he comes is bright with 
flowers, soft music sounds on every side. So ought the old 
man to enter into the new life, confident of his welcome, 
pleasing to his Maker and his God, the heavenly minstrelsy in 
his ears. But it is far otherwise with me. I may lay me 
down in the ‘Angelica Vestis,’ the monkish garment that 
ensures the prayers of holy men for the departing soul; but who 
will secure me the wedding • garment that ensures admission to 
the banquet above 

“Do you find no comfort in the Blessed Sacrament, 
Altezzal” said Inglesant. 

“ Sometimes I may fancy so; but I cannot see the figure of 
the Christ for the hell that lies between.” 

“Ah ! Altezza,” said Inglesant, his eyes full of pity, not 
only for the old Duke^ but for himself and all mankind, “ it is 
always thus. Something stands between us and the heavenly 
life. My temptation is other than yours. Communion after 
communion I find Christ, and He is gracious to me—gTacious 
as the love of God Himself; but month after month and year 
after year I find not how to follow Him, and when the road is 
opened to me I am deaf, and refuse to answer to the heavenly 
call. You, Altezza, are in more hopeful case than I; for it 
seems to me that your Highness has but to throw off that 
blasphemous superstition which is found in all Christian creeds 
alike, which has not feared to blacken even the shining gates of 
heaven with the smoke of hell.” 

“ All creeds are alike,” said the Duke with a shudder, “ but 
mostly your northern religions, harsh and bitter as your skies. 

I have lieard from a Lutheran a system of religion that made 
my blood run cold, the more as it commends itself to my calmer 
reason.” * ^ 

“And that is, Altezza 1” said Inglesant. 

“ This, that so far from the Sacrament of Absolution upon 
earth, or at the hour of death, availing anything, God Himself 
no power to change the state of those who die without 
being entirely purified from every trace of earthly and sensual 
passion ^ to such as these, though otherwise sincere Christians, 
nothing awaits but a long course of suffering in the desolate 


CHAP. XXVI.] A ROMANCE. 2PD 

regions of Hades, as the Lutheran calls it, until, if so may he, 
the earthly idea is annihilated and totally obliterated from the 
heart.” 

“This seems little different from the doctrine of the 
Church,” said Inglesant. 

“It is different in this most important part,” replied the 
Duke, “that Holy Church purifies and pardons her penitent, 
though he feels the passions of earth strong within him till the 
last; but by this system y6u must eradicate these yourself. You 
must purify your heart, you must feel every carnal lust, every 
vindictive thought, every lofty and contemptuous notion, utterly 
dead within you before you can enjoy a moment’s expectotion of 
future peace. He that goes out of this world with an uncharit¬ 
able thought against his neighbour does so with the chances 
against him that he is lost for ever, for his face is timied from 
the light, and he enters at once upon the devious and downward 
walks of the future life; and what ground has he to expect that 
he who could not keep his steps in this life will find any to turn 
him back, or will have ]x>wer to turn himself back, from every 
growing evil in the world to come 1” 

As the Duke spoke it seemed to Inglesant that these words 
were addressed to him alone, and that he saw before him the 
snare of the Devil, baited with the murderer of his brother, 
stretched before his heedless feet for his eternal destruction. 

The Duke took up a book that lay by him, and read,— 

“ The soul that cherishes the slightest animosity, and takes 
this feeling into eternity, cannot be happy, though in other 
respects pious and faithful. Bitterness is completely opposed 
to the nature and constitution of heaven. The blood of Christ, 
Avho on the cross, in the midst of the most excruciating 
torments, exercised love instead of bitterness, cleanses from this 
sin also, when it flows in our veins.” 

“I see nothing in this, Altezza,” said Inglesant eagerly, 
“ but what is in accordance with the doctrines of the Church. 
This is that idea of sacramental purification, that Christ’s Body 
being assimilated to ours purifies and sanctifies. His Body, 
being exalted at that supreme moment and effort (the moment 
of His suffering death) to the highest purity of temper and of 
sweetness by the perfect love and holiness which pervaded His 
spirit, has been able ever since, in all ages, through the mystery 
of the Blessed Sacrament, to convert all its worthy recipients 


300 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap. XXTJ. 


ill some degree to the same pure and holy state. Many things 
which men consider misfortunes and painful experiences are in 
fact but the force of this divine influence, assimilating their 
hearts to His, and attempering their bodies to the lofty purity 
of His own. This is the master work of the De^il, that he 
should lure us into states of mind, as the book says, of bitter¬ 
ness and of violence, by which this divine sweetness is tainted, 
and this peace broken by suspicion, by hatred, and heat of 
blood.” 

“ The book says sornewfliere,” said the Duke, turning over 
the leaves, “that, as the penitent thief rose from the cross to 
Panuiise, so we, if we long after Christ with all the powers 
of our souls, shall, at the hour of death, rapidly soar aloft from 
our mortal remains, and then all fear of retm-ning to earth and 
earthly desires will be at an end.” 

“It must surely,” said Inglesant after a pause, speaking 
more to himself than to the Duke, “ be among the things most 
sm-prising to an angelic nature that observ'es mankind, that, 
shadows om’selves, standing upon the confines even of this 
shadowy land, and not knowing what, if aught, awaits us else¬ 
where, hatred or revenge or imkindness should be among the 
last passions that are overcome. When the veil is lifted, and 
we see things as they really are, nothing will so much amaze us 
as the blindness and perversity that marked our life among our 
fellow-men. Surely the lofty life is hard, as it seems hard to 
your Grace ; but the very effort itself is gain.” 

Inglesant left the presence of the Duke after his first inter¬ 
view impressed and softened, but troubled in his mind more 
than ever at the nature of the mission on which he was sent. 
Now that he had seen the Duke, and had been touched by his 
eager questions, and by the earnest searching look in the worn 
face, his conscience smote him at the thouglit of abusing his 
confidence, and of persuading him to adopt a course which Ingle- 
sant’s own heart warned him might not in the end be conducive 
either to his own peace or to the welfare of his people, whose 
happiness he sincerely sought. He found that, in the ante¬ 
chambers and reception rooms of the palace, and even at the 
Duke’s own table, the principal subject of conversation was the 
expected cession of the dukedom to the Papal See; and that 
emissaries from Rome had preceded him, and had evidently 
received instructions announcing his arrival, and were piepared 


CHAP, XXVI.] 


A ROMANCE. 


301 


to welcome him as an important ally. On the other liaini, 
there were not wanting those who openly or covertly opposed 
the cession, some of whom were said to be agents of the Grand 
Duke of Florence, who was heir to the Duchy of Umbria 
through his wife. These latter, whose opposition was more 
secret than open, sought every opportunity of winning Inglesant 
to their party, employing the usual arguments with which, since 
his coming into Italy, he had been so familiar. Many days 
passed in this manner, and Inglesant had repeated conferences 
mth the Duke, during which he made great jDrogress in his 
favour, and was himself won by his lofty, kindly, and trustful 
character. 

He had resided at Umbria a little less than a month, when 
he received instructions by a courier from Rome, by which he 
was informed that at the approaching festival of the Ascension 
a determined effort was to be made by the agents and friends of 
the Pope to bring the business to a conclusion. The Duke had 
promised to keep this festival, which is celebrated at Venice 
and in other parts of Italy with great solemnity, with unusual 
magnificence; and it was hoped that while his feelings were 
influenced and his religious instincts excited by the solemn and 
tender thoughts and imaginations which gather round the figure 
of the ascending Son of man, he might be induced to sign the 
deed of cession. Hitherto the Duke had not mentioned the 
subject to Inglesant, having found his conversation upon ques¬ 
tions of the spiritual life and practice sufficient to occupy the 
time; but it was not probable that this silence would continue 
much longer, and on the first day in Ascension week Inglesant 
was attending Vespers at one of the Churches in the town in 
considerable anxiety and trouble of mind. 

The sun had hardly set, and the fete in the garden was not 
yet begun, when. Vespers being over, he came out upon the 
river-side lined with stately houses wdiich fronted the palace 
gardens towering in terraced walks and trellises of gi’een hedges 
on the opposite bank. The sun, setting behind the wooded 
slojies, flooded this green hillside with soft and dream-like light, 
and bathed the carved marble facade of the palace, rising above 
it, with a rosy glimmer, in which the statues on its roof, and the 
fretted work of its balustrades, rested against the darkening blue 
of the evening sky. A reflex light, ethereal and wonderful, com¬ 
ing from the sky behind him, and the marble buildings and towers 


302 


JOHN INGLESANT ; 


[chap. XXVI. 

on Avhich the sun’s rays rested more fully than they did upon 
the jjalace, brooded over the river and the bridge with its rows 
of angelic forms, and, climbing the leafy slopes, as it to contrast 
its softer splendour with the light above, transfigured Avith 
colour the wreaths of A-aponr which rose from the river and 
hung about its wharves. 

The people Avere already crowding out of the city, and 
forcing their Avay across the bridge towards the palace, Avhere 
the illuminations and the curious waterworks, upon Avhich the 
young Duke had, during his short reign, expendecl much money, 
Avere to be exhibited as soon as the evening Avas sufficiently 
dark. The people Avere noisy and jostling, but as usual good- 
tempered and easily pleased. FeAV masques or masquerade 
dresses had appeared as yet, but almost every one Avas armed 
Avith a small trumpet, a ckum, or a Samarcand cane from which 
to shoot peas or comfits. At the corner of the main street that 
opened on to the quay, however, some disturbing cause was 
evidently at Avork. The crowd was perplexed by tAvo contending 
ciu’rents, the one consisting of those who AA’ere attempting to 
turn into the street from the Avharf, in order to learn the cause 
of the confusion, the other, of those who were apparently being 
driven forcibly out of the street, towards the wharves and the 
bridge, by pressure from behind. Discordant cries and exclama¬ 
tions of anger and contempt rose above the struggling mass. 
Taking advantage of the current that SAvept him onward, 
Inglesant reached the steps of the Church of St. Felix, which 
stood at the corner of the two streets, immediately opposite the 
bridge and the ducal lions Avhich flanked the approach. On 
reaching this commanding situation the cause of the tumidt 
presented itself in the form of a small group of men, who were 
apparently dragging a prisoner with them, and had at this 
moment reached the corner of the wharf, not far from the steps 
of the Church, surrounded and urged on by a leaping, shouting, 
and excited croAATl. Seen from the top of the broad marble 
bases that flanked the steps, the whole of the Avide space, formed 
by the confluence of the streets, and over which the shadoAvs 
were rapidly darkening, presented nothing but a sea of agitated 
and tossing heads, Avhile, from the windows, the bridge, and 
even the distant marble terraced steps that led up to the palace, 
the crowd appeared curious, and conscious that .something un¬ 
usual was in progress. 



CHAP. XXVI.] 


A ROMANCE. 


303 


From the cries and aspect of the crowd, and of the men who 
dragged their prisoner along, it was evident that it was the 
intention of the people to throw the wretched man over the 
parapets of the bridge into the river below, and that to frustrate 
this intention not a inoment was to be lost. The pressure of 
the crowd, greater from the opposite direction than from the 
one in which Inglesant had come, fortunately swejit the group 
almost to the foot of the steps. Near to Inglesant, and clinging 
to the carved bases of the half columns that supported the 
fagade of the Church, were two or three priests who had come 
out of the interior, attracted by the tumult. Availing himself 
of their support, Inglesant shouted to the captors of the 
unha 2 :>py man, in the name of the 01110:011 and of the Duke, to 
bring their prisoner up the steps. They probably would not 
have obeyed him, though they he^jitated for a moment; but the 
surrounding crowd, attracted towards the Church by Inglesant’s 
gestures, began to jiress upon it from all sides, as he had indeed 
foreseen would be the case, and finally, by their unconscious and 
involuntary motion, swept the prisoner and his captors up the 
steps to the side of the priests and of Inglesant. It was a 
singular scene. The rajiidly advancing night had changed the 
golden haze of sunset to a sombre gloom, but lights began to 
appear in the houses all around, and paper lanterns showed 
themselves among the crowd. 

The cause of all this confusion was dragged by his perse¬ 
cutors up the steps, and placed upon the last of the flight, con¬ 
fronting the priests. His hair was disordered, his clothes nearly 
torn from his limbs, and his face and diess streaked with blood. 
Past the curtain across the entrance of the Church, which was 
partly drawn back by those inside, a flash of light shot across 
the marble jdatform, and shone upon the faces of the foremost 
of the crowd. This light shone full upon Inglesant, who stood, 
in striking contrast to the dishevelled figure that confronted 
him, dressed in a suit of black satin and silver, with a deep 
collar of Point-de-A^enice lace. The priests stood a little behind, 
apparently desirous to learn the nature of the prisoner’s offence 
before they interfered; and the accusers therefore addressed 
themselves to Inglesant, who, indeed, was recognized by many 
as a friend of the Duke, and whom the priests especially had 
received instructions from Koine to suj^port. The confusion in 
the crowd meanwhile increased rather than diminished; there 



304 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap, xxvl 


seeiiiid to be causes at work other than the slight one of the 
seizure by the mob of an unpopular man. Tlie town was very 
full of strangers, and it struck Inglesant that the arrest of the 
man before him was merely an excuse, and was being used by 
some who had an object to gain by stirring up the people. He 
saw, at any rate, however this might be, a means of engaging 
the priests to assist him, should their aid be necessary in saving 
the man’s life. 

That there was a passionate attachment among the people 
to a separate and independent government of their city and state, 
an affection towards the family of their hereditary dukes, and a 
dread and jealous dislike of the Pope’s government and of the 
priests, he had reason to believe. It seemed to him that the 
people were about to break forth into some demonstration of 
this antipatliy, which, if allowed to take place, and if taken ad¬ 
vantage of, as it would be, by the neighbouring princes, would 
be most displeasing to the policy of Rome, if not entirely sub¬ 
versive of it. With these thoughts in his mind, as he stood for 
a moment silent on the marble platform, and saw before him, 
what is perhaps the most impressive of all sights, a vast assem¬ 
blage of people in a state of violent and excited opposition, and 
reffected on the causes which he imagined agitated them,— 
causes which in his heart he, though enlisted on the opposite 
side, had difficulty in persuading himself were not justifiable,— 
it came into his mind more powerfully than ever, that the 
moment foretold to him by Serenus de Cressy was at last 
indeed come. Surely it behoved him to look well to his stops, 
lest he should be found at last absolutely and unequivocally 
fighting against his conscinice and his God; if, indeed, this 
looking well to their steps on such occasions, and not boldly 
choosing their side, had not been for many j'-ears the prevailing 
vice of his family, and to some extent the cause of his own 
spiritual failure. 

The two men who held the apparent cause of all this uproar 
were two mechanics of jovial aspect, who appeared to look upon 
the affair more in the light of a brutal practical joke (no worse 
in their eyes for its brutality), than as a very serious matter. 
To Inglesant’s question what the man had done they answered 
that he had refused to kneel to the Blessed Sacrament, as it 
was being carried through the streets to some poor, dying soul, 
and upon being remonstrated with, had reviled not only the 



CHAP. XXVI.] 


A ROMANCE. 


305 


Sacrament itself, but the Virgin, the Holy Father, and the 
Italians generally, as Papistical asses, v ith no more sense than 
the Paiitaleoni of their own comedies. The men gave this evi¬ 
dence in an insolent half-jesting manner, as though not sorry to 
litter such words safely in the presence of the priests. 

Inglesant, who kept his eyes fixed upon the prisoner, and 
noticed that he was rapidly recovering from the breathless and 
exhausted condition the ill-treatment he had met with had 
reduced him to, and was assuming a determined and somewhat 
noble aspect, abstained from questioning him, lest he should 
make his own case only the more des])erate; but, turning to 
the priests, he rapidly explained his fears to them, and urged 
that the man should be immediately secured from the people, 
that he might be examined by the Duke, and the result for¬ 
warded to Rome. The priests hesitated. Apart from the 
difficulty, they said, of taking the man out of the hands of his 
captors, such a course would be siu'e to exasperate the people 
still further, and bring on the very evil that he was desirous 
of averting. It would be better to let the mob work th^ir will 
upon the man; it would at least occupy some time, and every 
moment was precious. In less than an hour the fireworks at 
the palace would begin, might indeed be hastened by a special 
messenger; and the fete once begun, they hoped all danger 
would be over. To this Inglesant answered that the man’s 
arrest was evidently only an excuse for riot, and had probably 
already answered its purpose; that to confine the people’s atten¬ 
tion to it would be imfavourable to the intentions of those who 
were promoting a political tumult; and that the avowed cause ’ 
of the man’s seizure, and of the excitement of the mob, being 
disrespectful language towards the Holy Father, the tumult, if 
properly managed, might be made of service to the cause of 
Rome rather than the reverse. 

Without waiting for the effect of this somewhat obscure 
argument on the priests, Inglesant directed the men who held 
their prisoner to bring him into the Church. They were unwill¬ 
ing to do so, but the crowd below was so confused and tumultu¬ 
ous, one shouting one thing and one another, that it seemed 
impossible that, if they descended into it again, they would be 
allowed to retain their prey, and would not rather be over¬ 
whelmed in a common destruction with him. On the other 
hand, by obeying Inglesant, they at least kept possession of 

X 






306 


JOHN INGLE UNTj 


[CUAP. XXVI. 


their prisoner, and could therefore scarcely fail of receiving 
some reward from the authorities. They therefore consented, 
and by a sudden movement they entered the Church, the doors 
of which were immediately closed, after some few of the popu¬ 
lace had managed to squeeze themselves in. A messenger was 
at once despatched to the palace to hasten the fireworks, and to 
request that a detachment of the Duke’s guard should be sent 
into the Church by a back way. 

The darkness had by this time so much increased that few 
of the people were aware of what had taken place, and the 
ignorance of the crowd as to the cause of the tumult was so 
general that little disturbance took place among those who 
were shut out of the Chm*ch. They remained howling and 
hooting, it is true, for some time, and some went so far as to 
beat against the closed doors ; but a rumoiu being spread among 
the crowd that the fireworks were immediately to begin, they 
grew tired of this unproductive occupation, and flocked almost 
to a man out of the square and wharves, and crowded across 
the bridge into the gardens. 

When the guard arrived, Inglesant claimed the man as the 
Duke’s prisoner, to be examined before him in the morning. 
The curiosity of the Duke in all religious matters being well 
known, this seemed very reasonable to the officer of the guard, 
and the priests did not like to dispute it after the instructions 
they had received \\dth regard to Inglesant’s mission. The two 
artisans were propitiated by a considerable reward, and the 
prisoner was then transported by unfrequented ways to the 
])alace, and shut up in a solitary apartment, w'hilst the rest of 
the world delighted itself at the palace fetes. 

The garden festivities passed away amid general rejoicing 
and applause. The finest effect was produced at the conclusion, 
when the whole mass of water at the command of the engines, 
being thrown into the air in thin fan-like jets, was illuminated 
by various coloured lights, producing the appearance of innumer¬ 
able rainbows, through which the palace itself, the orangeries, 
the gardens, and terraces, and the crowds of delighted people, 
were seen illuminated and refracted in varied and ever-changing 
tints. Amid tliese si)arkling colours strange birds passed to 
and fro, and angelic forms descended by unseen machinery and 
walked on the higher terraces, and as it were upon the flashing 
rainbows themselves. Delicious music from unseen instruments 




CHAP. XXVII.] 


A ROMANCE. 


307 


ravished the sense, and when the scene appeared complete and 
nothing farther was expected, an orange grove in the centre of 
the whole apparently burst open, and displayed the stage of a 
theatre, upon which antic characters performed a pantomime, 
and one of the finest voices in Italy sang an ode in honour of 
the day, of the Duke, and of the Pope. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

The Duke had engaged the next morning to be present at a 
theatrical representation of a religious character, somewhat of 
the nature of a miracle play, to be given in the courtyard of 
the “ Hospital of Death,” which adjoined to the Campo Santo 
of the city. 

Before accompanying his Highness, Inglesant had given 
orders to have the man, who had been the cause of so much 
excitement the evening before, brought into his apartment, 
that he might see wliether or no his eccentricity made him 
sulRciently interesting to be presented to the Duke. 

When the stranger was brought to the palace early in the 
morning, and having been found to be quite harmless, was 
entrusted by the guard to two servants to be brought into 
Inglesant’s presence, he thought liimself in a new w'orld. 
Hitherto his acquaintance with Italian life had been that of a 
stranger and from the outside; he was now to see somewhat of 
the interior life of a people among whom the glories of the 
Renaissance still lingered, and to see it in one of the most 
wonderful of the Renaissance works, the ducal palace of Umbria. 
Born in the did! twilight of the north, and having spent most 
of his mature years amongst the green mezzotints of Germany, 
he was now transplanted into a land of light and colour, 
dazzling to a stranger so brought up. Reared in the sternest 
discipline, he found himself among a people to whom life was a 
fine art, and the cultivation of the present and its enjoyments 
the end of existence. From room to room, as he followed liis 
guide, who pointed out from time to time such of the beauties 
of the place as he considered most worthy of notice, the stranger 
saw around what certainly might have intoxicated a less com¬ 
posed and determined brain. 





308 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[CIIA.P. XXVII. 


The highest efforts of the genius of the Eenaissance had 
been expended upon this magnificent house. The birth of a 
new instinct, differing in some respects from any instincts of 
art which had preceded it, produced in this and other similar 
efforts original and wonderful results. The old Greek art 
entered with unsimpassable intensity into sympathy with human 
life; but it was of necessity original and creative, looking always 
forward and not back, and lacked the pathos and depth of 
feeling that accompanied that new birth of art whicji sought 
much of its inspiration among the tombs and ruined grottoes, 
and ihost of its sympathetic power among the old well-springs 
of human feeling, read in the torn and faded memorials of past 
suffering and destruction. This new instinct of art abandoned 
itself without reserve to the pursuit of everything which man¬ 
kind had ever beheld of the beautiful, or had felt of the pathetic 
or the sad, or had dreamed of the noble or tlie ideal. The 
genius of the Renaissance set itself to reproduce this enchanted 
world of form and colour, traversed by thoughts and spiritual 
existences mysterious and beautiful, and the home of beings 
who had found this form and colour and these mysterious 
thoughts blend into a human life delicious in its very sorrows, 
grotesque and incongruous in its beauty, alluring and attractive 
amid all its griefs and hardships; so much so indeed that, in 
the language of the old fables, the Gods themselves could not 
be restrained from throwing off their divine garments, and 
wandering up and down among the paths and the adventures 
of men. By grotesque and humorous delineation, by fanciful 
representation of human passion under strange and unexpected 
form, by the dumb ass speaking aud gTasshoppers playing upon 
flutes, was this world of intelligent life reproduced in the rooms 
and on the w\alls of the house through wdiich the stranger 
walked for the first time. 

He probably thought that he saw little of it, yet the bizarre 
effect was burning itself into his brain. From the overhanging 
chimney-pieces antique masques and figures such as he had 
never seen, even in dreams, leered out upon him from arabesque 
carvings of foliage, or skulked behind trophies of war, of music, 
or of the arts of peace. The door and window frames seemed 
bowers of fruit and flowers, and forests of carved leaves 
wreathed the pilasters and walls. But this was not all; with 
a perfection of design and an extraordinary power of fancy, this 


CHAP. XXVII.] 


A ROMANCE. 


309 


world of sylvan imagery was peopled by figures and stories of 
exquisite grace and sweetness, representing the most touching 
incidents of human life and history. Meu and women; lovers 
and Avarriors in conflicts and dances and festivals, in sacrifices and 
games; children sporting among flowers; bereavement and 
death, husbandry and handicraft, hunters and beasts of chase. 
Again, among briony and jasmin and roses, or perched upon 
ears of corn and sheaves of maize, birds of every plumage con¬ 
fronted—so the grotesque genius willed—fish and sea monsters 
and shells and marine wonders of every kind. 

Upon the walls, relier^ed by panelling of wood, Avere'paint¬ 
ings of landscapes and the ruined buildings of antiquity over- 
groAvn with moss, or of modern active life in markets and 
theatres, of churches and cities in the course of erection, Avith 
the architects and scaffold poles, of the processions and marriages 
of princes, of the ruin of emperors and of kings. BeloAv and 
beside these were credenzas and cabinets upon wliich luxury 
and art had lavished every costly device and material Avhich 
the world conceived or yielded. Inlaid with precious AAmods, 
and glittering Avith costly jewels and marbles, they reproduced 
in these differing materials all those infinite designs Avhich the 
carved walls had already wearied themselves to exju’ess. 
Plaques and vases from Castel Dimante or Faience,—some of a 
strange pale colour, others brilliant Avith a grotesque combina¬ 
tion of blue and yellow,—croAvded the shelves. 

Passing through this long succession of rooms, the stranger 
reached at last a library, a noble apartment of gi’eat size, 
furnished Avith books in brilliant antique binding of gold and 
wdiite vellum, and otherAvise ornamented with as miudi richness 
as the rest of the palace. Upon reading desks were open manu¬ 
scripts and printed books richly illuminated. Connected Avith. 
this apartment by open arches was an anteroom or corridor, 
wliich again opened on a loggia, beyond the shady arches of 
which lay the palace gardens, long vistas of green walks, and 
reaches of blue sky, flecked and crossed by the spray of fountains. 
The decorations of the anteroom and loggia were more profuse 
and extravagant than any that the stranger had yet seen. 
Tliere was a tradition that this portion of the palace had been 
finished last, and that Avheii the workmen arrived at it the time 
for the completion of the whole was very nearly run out. The 
attention of all the great artists, hitherto engaged upon different 


310 JOHN inglesant; [chap, xxvii. 

parts of 'the entire palace, was concentrated upon this unfinished 
portion, and all their workmen and assistants were called to 
labour upon it alone. The work went on by night and day, 
not ceasing even to allow of sleep. Unlimited supplies of 
Greek wine were furnished to the workmen ; and stimulated by 
excitement and the love of art, emulating each other, and half- 
intoxicated by the delicious wine, the work exceeded all previous 
productions. For wild boldness and luxuriance of fancy these 
rooms were probably unequalled in the world. 

In the anteroom facing the loggia the stranger found Ingle- 
sant conversing with an Italian who held rather a singular post 
in the ducal Court. He was standing before a cabinet of black 
oak, inlaid with representations of lutes and fifes, over which 
were strewn roses confined by coloirred ribbons, and supporting 
vases of blue and yellow majolica, thrown into strong relief by 
the black wood. Above this cabinet was a painting represent¬ 
ing some battle in which a former Duke had won great honour; 
while on a grassy knoll in the foreground the huntsmen of 
Ganymede were standing with their eyes turned upward towards 
the bird of Zeus, who is carrying the jmuth away to the skies, 
emblematical of the alleged apotheosis of the ducal hero. 
Eichly dressed in a fantastic suit of striped silk, and leaning 
against the cabinet in an attitude of listless repose, Inglesaiit 
was contemplating an object which he held in his hand, and 
which both he and his companion appeared to regard with 
intense interest. This was an antique statuette of a faun, 
holding its tail in its left hand, and turning its head and body 
to look at it,—an occupation of which, if we may trust the 
monuments of antiquity, this singular creature appears to have 
been fond. The Italian Avas of a striking figiu-e, and was 
dressed someAvhat more gaily than was customary with his 
countrymen; and the whole group was fully in unison with the 
spirit of the place aiid with the wealth of beauty and luxuiy of 
human life that pervaded tlie Avhole. 

The man who was standing by Inglesant’s side, and who 
had the air of a connoisseur or virtuoso, Avas an Italian of some 
fifty years of age. His appearance, as has been said, Avas 
striking at first sight, but on longer acquaintance became very 
much more so. He Avas tall and had been dark, but his hair 
and beard Avere plentif illy streaked Avith gray. His features 
Avere large and a(iuiline, and his face deeply furrowed and lined. 


A ROMANCE. 


311 


CHAP. XXYII.] 

His appearance would have been painfully worn, almost to 
ghastliness, but for a mocking and humorous expression which 
laughed from his eyes, his mouth, his nostrils, and every line 
and feature of his face. Whenever this expression subsided, 
and his countenance sank into repose, a look of wan sadness 
and even terror took its place, and the large black eyes became 
fixed and intense in their gaze, as though some appalling object 
attracted their regard. 

This man had been born of a good but poor family, and had 
been educated by his relations with the expectation of his 
becoming an ecclesiastic, and he had even passed some time as 
a novice of some religious order. The tendency of his mind 
not leading him to the further pursuit of a religious life, he left 
his monastery, and addressed himself to live by his wits, among 
the families and households of princes. He had made himself 
very useful in arranging comedies and pageantries, and lie had 
at one time belonged to one of those dj-amatic companies called 
“Zanni,” who went about the country reciting and acting 
comedies. Combined with this talent he discovered great apti¬ 
tude in the management of serious affairs, and was more than 
once, while apparently engaged entirely on theatrical perform¬ 
ances, employed in secret State negotiations which could not so 
well be entrusted to an acknowledged and conspicuous agent. 
In this manner of life he might have continued; but having 
become involved in one of the contests which disturbed Italy, 
he received a dangerous wound in the head, and on rising from 
his sick bed in the Albergo in which he had been nursed, he 
was merely removed to another as a singular if not dangerous 
lunatic. The symptoms of his disease first manifested them¬ 
selves in a very unpleasant fixmiliarity with the secrets of those 
around him, and it was probably this feature of his complaint 
which led to his detention. As he improved in health, how¬ 
ever, he ceased to indulge in any conversation which might give 
offence, but, assuming a sedate and agreeable manner, he con¬ 
versed with all who came to him, calling them, although 
strangers and such as he had never before seen, by their proper 
names, and talking to them pleasantly concerning their parents, 
relations, the coats-of-arms of their families, and such other 
harmless and agi’eeable matters. 

What brought him prominently into notice was the strangely 
prophetic spirit he manifested before, or at the moment of the 


312 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap, xxvii. 


occurrence of, more than one public event. He was taken from 
the hospital and examined by the Pope, and afterwards at 
several of the sovereign Courts of Italy. Thus, not long before 
the time when Inglesant met him in the ducal palace at Umbria, 
he was at Chambery assisting at the preparation of some 
festivals which the young Duke of Savoy was engaged in cele¬ 
brating. One day, as he w'as seated at dinner with several of 
the Duke’s servants, he suddenly started up from his seat, 
exclaiming that he saw the Duke de Nemours fall dead from 
his horse, killed by a pistol shot. The Duke, who was uncle 
to the young monarch of Savoy, was then in France, where he 
was one of the leaders of the party of the Fronde. Before 
many days were passed, however, the news reached Chambery 
of the fatal duel between this nobleman and the Duke of 
Beaufort, which occui'red at the moment the Italian had thus 
announced it. 

These and other similar circumstances caused the man to be 
much talked of and sought after among the Courts of Italy, 
where a belief in manifestations of the supernatiu’al was scarcely 
less universal than in the previous age, when, according to an 
eye-witness, “ the Pope would decide no question, would take 
no journey, hold no sitting of the Consistory, without first con¬ 
sulting the stai's; nay, very few cardinals would transact an 
affair of any kind, were it but to buy a load of wood, except 
after consultatiou duly held with some astrologer or wizard.” 
The credit which the man gained, and the benefits he derived 
from this reputation, raised him many enemies, who did not 
scruple to assert that he was simply a clever knave, who was 
not even his own dupe. Setting on one side, however, the 
revelations of the distant and the unknown made by him, which 
seemed inexplicable excejDt by siqqiosing him possessed of some 
unusual spiritual faculty, there was in the man an amount of 
knowledge of the world and of men of all classes and ranks, 
combined with much learning and a humorous wit, which made 
his company well worth having for his conversation alone. It 
was not then surprising that he should be found at this juncture 
at the Court of Umbria, where the peculiar idiosyncrasies of 
tlie aged Duke, and the interest attached to the intrigue for 
the cession of the dukedom, had assembled a strange and hetero¬ 
geneous company, and towards which at the moment all men’s 
eyes in Italy were turned. 


CHAP. XXVI r.] 


A ROMANCE. 


313 


“ Yes, doubtless, it is an antique,” the Italian was saying, 
“ though in the last age many artists produced masques and 
figimes so admirable as to be mistaken for antiques; witness 
that masque which IVlessire Georgio Vassari says he put in a 
chimney-piece of his house at Arezzo, which every one took to 
be an antique. I have seen such myself. This little fellow, 
however, I saw found in a vineyard near the Misericordia—a 
place which I take to have been at some time or other the scene 
of some terrible event, such as a conflict or struggle or massacre; 
for though now it is quiet and serene enough, with the sunlight 
and the rustling leaves, and the splash of a fountain about which 
tliei’e is some good carving, I think, of Fra Giovanni Agnolo,— 
for all this, I never walk there but I feel the presence of fatal 
events, and a sense of dim figures engaged in conflict, and of 
faint and distant cries and groans.” 

As he spoke these last words his eye restecl upon the strange 
figime of the man so hardly rescued from death the night before, 
and he stopped. His manner changed, and his eyes assumed 
that expression of intense expectation of which we have spoken 
before. The appearance of the stranger, and the contrast it 
presented to the objects around, was indeed such as to make 
him almost seem an inhabitant of another world, and one of 
those phantasms of past conflict of which the Italian had just 
spoken. His clothes, which harl originally been of the plainest 
texture, and most uncourtly make, were worn and ragged, and 
stained with damp and dirt. His form and features were gaunt 
and uncouth, and his gesture stift' and awkward; but, with all 
this, there was a certain steadiness and dignity about his man¬ 
ner, which threw an appearance of nobility over this rugged 
and unpleasing form. Contrasted with the dress and manney 
of the other men, he looked like some enthusiastic prophet, 
standing in the house of mirth and luxury, ^nd predicting ruin 
and woe. 

At this moment a servant entered the room, bringing a 
sottocoppa of silver, upon which were two or three stiff necked 
glasses, called caraffas, containing different sorts of wine, and 
also water, and one or two more empty drinking-glasses, so that 
fhe visitor could please himself as to the strength and nature of 
ids beverage. Inglesant offered this refreshment to the Italian, 
who filled himself a glass and drank, pledging Inglesant as he 
did so. The latter did not drink, but ofiered wine and cakes to 


314 


JOHN INGLES ANT; 


[chap. XXVII. 


the stranger, who refused or rather took no heed of these offers 
of politeness; he remained silent, keeping his eyes fixed upon 
the face of the man who, hut a few hours before, had saved him 
from a violent death. 

“ I have had some feelings of this kind myself, in certain 
places,” said Inglesant, in answer to the Italian’s speech, “ and 
very frequently in all places the sense of something vanishing, 
which in another moment I should have seen; it has seemed to 
me that, could I once see this thing, matters would be very 
different with me. Whether I ever shall or not I do not 
know.” 

“Who can say?” replied the other. “We live and move 
amid a crowd of flitting objects unknown or dimly seen. The 
beings and powers of the unseen world throng around us. We 
call ourselves lords of our own actions and fate, but we are in 
reality the slaves of every atom of matter of which the world is 
made and we ourselves created. Among this phantasm of 
struggling forms and influences (like a man forcing his way 
through a crowd of masques who mock at him and retard his 
steps) we fight our way towards the light. Many of us are 
born with the seeds wuthin us of that which makes such a fight 
hopeless from the first—the seeds of disease, of ignorance, of 
adverse circumstance, of stupidity; for even a dullard has had 
once or twice in his life glimpses of the light. So we go on. I 
w^as at Chambery once when a man came before the Duke in 
the palace garden to ask an alms. He \vas a worker in gold, a 
good artist, not unworthy of Cellini himself. His sight had 
failed him, and he could no longer work for bread to give to his 
children. He stood before the Prince and those who stood with 
him, among whom were a Cardinal and two or three nobles, with 
their pages and grooms, trying with his dim eyes to make out 
one from the other, which was noble and which was groom, and 
to see whether his suit was rejected or allowed. Behind him, 
beyond the garden shade the dazzling glitter stretched up to the 
white Alps. We are all the creatures of a day, and the puny 
afflictions of any man’s life are not worth a serious thought: 
yet this man seemed to me so true an image of his kind, help¬ 
less and half-blind, yet struggling to work out some good for 
himself, that I felt a strange emotion of pity. They gave him 
alms—some more, some less. I was a fool, yet even now I 
think the man was no bad emblem of the life of each of us. We 


CHAT. XXVII.] A ROMANCE. 315 

do not understand this enough. Will the time ever come when 
these things will be better known V’ 

As the Italian spoke the stranger took his eyes off Inglesant 
and fixed them on the speaker with a startled expression, as 
though the tone of his discourse was unexpected to him. He 
scarcely waited for the other to finish before he broke in upon 
the conversation, speaking slowly and with intense earnestness, 
as though above all things desinnis of being understood. He 
sjioke a strange and uncouth Italian, full of rough northern 
idioms, yet the earnestness and dignity of his manner ensured 
him an audience, especially with two such men as those who 
stood before him. 

“Standing in a new world,” he said, “and speaking as I 
speak, to men of another language, and of thoughts and habits 
distinct from mine, I see beneath the tinsel of earthly rank and 
splendour and a luxury of life and of beauty, tl)e very meaning 
of which is unknown to me, something of a common feeling, 
which assures me that the voice I utter will not be entirely 
strange, coming as it does from the common Father. I see 
around me a land given over to idolatry and sensual crime, as if 
the old Pagans were returned again to earth ; and liere around 
me I see the symbols of the Pagan worship and of the Pagan 
sin, and I hear no other talk than that which would have be¬ 
fitted the Pagan revels and the Pagan darkness which overhung 
the world to come. Standing on the brink of a violent death, 
and able to utter few words that can be understood, I call, in 
these short moments which are given me, and in these few words 
which I have at command—I call upon all who will listen to 
me, that they leave those tilings which are behind, with all the 
filthy recollections of ages steeped in sin, and that they press 
forward towards the light—the light of God in Jesus Christ.” 

He stopjied, probably for want of words to clothe his 
thoughts, and Inglesant refilled,— 

“ You may be assured from the events of last night, signore, 
that you are in no danger of violent death in this house, and 
that every means wiU be taken to jirotect you, imtil you, have 
been found guilty of some crime. You must, however, know 
that no country can allow its customs and its religion to be out¬ 
raged by strangers and aliens, and you cannot be surprised if 
such conduct is resented both by the governors of the country 
and by the ignorant populace, though these act from different 


316 


JOHN INGLESANT, 


[CHAP. XXVII. 


motives. As to what you have said respecting the ornaments 
and symbols of this house, and of the converse in which you 
have found us engaged, it would seem that to a wise man these 
things might serve as an allegory, or at least as an image and 
representation of human life, and be, therefore, not without 
their uses.” 

“ I desire no representation nor image of a past world of 
iniquity,” said the stranger, “ I would I could say of a dead life, 
but the whole world lieth in wickedness until this day. This 
is why I travel througli all lands, crying to all men that they 
repent and escape the most righteous judgment of God, if haply 
there be yet time. These are those latter days in which our 
Saviour and Redeemer Jesus Christ, the Son of God, predicted 
that iniquity ‘should be increased;’ wherein, instead of serving 
God, all serve their own humours and affections, being rocked 
to sleep with the false and deceitful lullaby of effeminate plea¬ 
sures and delights of the flesh, and know not that an horrible 
mischief and overthrow is awaiting them, that the pit of Hell 
yawns beneath them, and that for them is reserved the inevi¬ 
table rigour of the eternal fire. Is it a time for chambering 
and wantonness, for soft raiment and dainty living, for reading 
of old play-books such as the one I see on the table, for building 
houses of cedar, painted with vermilion, and decked with all 
the loose and fantastic devices which a disordered and debauched 
intellect could itself conceive, or could borrow from Pagan tombs 
and haunts of devils, full of imcleanness and dead sins?” 

“You speak too harsldy of these things,” said Inglesant. 
“ I see nothing in them but the instinct of humanity, differing 
in its outward aspect in different ages, but alike in its meaning 
and audible voice. This house is in itself a representation of the 
world of fancy and reality combined, of the material life of the 
animal mingled with those half-seen and fitful glimpses of the 
unknown life upon the verge of which we stand. This little 
fellow which I hold in my hand, speaks to me, in an indistinct 
and yet forcible voice, of that common sympathy—magical and 
hidden though it may be—by which the whole creation is linked 
together, and in which, as is taught in many an allegory and 
quaint device upon these walls, the Creator of us all has a kindly 
feeling for the basest and most inanimate. My imagination 
follows huir anity through all the paths by which it has reached 
the present moment, and the more memorials I can gather of 


A ROMANCE. 


317 


CHAP. XXVII.] 

its devious footsteps the more enlarged my view becomes of 
what its trials, its struggles, and its virtues were. All things 
that ever delighted it were in themselves the good blessings of 
God—the painter’s and the player’s art—action, apparel, agility, 
music. Without these life would be a desert; and as it seems 
to me, these things softened manners so as to allow Religion to 
be heard, who otherwise would not have been listened to in a 
savage world, and among a brutal people destitute of civility. 
As I trace these things backward for centuries, I live far beyond 
my natural term, and my mind is delighted with the pleasures 
of nations who were dust ages before I was born.” 

“ I am not concerned to dispute the vain pleasures of the 
children of this world,” exclaimed the stranger with more warmth 
than he had hitherto shown. “ Do you suppose that I myself 
am without the lusts and desires of life ? Have I no eyes like 
other men, that I cannot take a carnal pleasure ip that which 
is cunningly formed by the enemy to please the eye ? Am not 
I warmed like other men 'i And is not soft clothing and dainty 
fare pleasing to me as to them 1 But I call on all men to rise 
above these things, which are transitory and visionary as a 
dream, and which you yourself have spoken of as magical and 
hidden, of which only fitful glimpses are obtained. You are 
pleasing yourself with fond and idle imaginations, the product 
of delicate living and unrestrained fancies; but in this the net 
of the devil is about your feet, and before you are aware you 
will find yom’self ensnared for ever. These things are slowly 
but surely poisoning your spiritual life. I call upon you to 
leave these delusions, and come out into the clear atmosphere 
of God’s truth; to tread the life of painful self-denial, leaving 
that of the pow'erful and great of this world, and following a 
despised Saviour, who knew none of these things, and spent His 
time not in kings’ houses gorgeously tricked out, but knew not 
where to lay His head. You speak to me of pleasures of the 
mind, of music, of the painter’s art; do you think that last 
night, when beaten, crushed, and almost breathless, in the midst 
of a bloodthirsty and howling crowd, I was dimly conscious of 
help, and looking up I saw you in the glare of the lanterns, in 
your courtier’s dress of lace and silver, calm, beneficent, power¬ 
ful for good, you did not seem to my weak human nature, and 
my low needs and instincts, beautiful as an angel of light ? 
Truly you did ; yet I tell you, speaking by a nature and in a 


318 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap. XXVII. 


voice that is more unerring than mine, that to the divine 
vision, of us two at that moment you were tlie one to be pitied, 
—you were the outcast, the tortured of demons, the bound 
hand and foot, whose portion is in this life, who, if this fleeting 
hoLU' is left imheeded, will be tormented in the life to come.” 

The Italian turned away his head to conceal a smile, and 
even to Ingiesant, who was much better able to understand the 
man’s meaning, this result of his interference to save his life 
appeared somewhat ludicrous. The Italian, however, probably 
thinking that Ingiesant woidd be glad to be relieved from his 
strange visitor, seemed desirous of terminating the interview. 

“His Grace expects me,” he said to Ingiesant, “at the 
Casa di Morte this morning, and it is near the time for him to 
be there. I will therefore take my leave.” 

“ Ah! the Casa di Morte; yes, he will expect me there 
also,” said Ingiesant, with some slight appearance of reluct¬ 
ance. “ I will follow you anon.” 

He moved from the indolent attitude he had kept till this 
moment before the sideboard, and exchanged with the Italian 
those formal gestures of leave-taking and politeness in which 
his nation were precise. When the Italian was gone Ingiesant 
summoned a servant, and directed him to provide the stranger 
with an apartment, and to see that he wanted for nothing. 
He then tinned to the fanatic, and requested him as a favour 
not to attempt to leave the palace until he had returned from 
the Duke. The stranger hesitated, but finally consented. 

“ I owe you my life,” he said,—“ a life I value not at a 
straw’s weight, but for which my Master may perchance have 
some use even yet. I am therefore in your debt, and I will 
give my word to remain quiet until you return; but this 
promise only extends to nightfall; should you be prevented by 
any chance from returning this day, I am free from my parole.” 

Ingiesant bowed. 

“ I would,” continued the man, looking upon his companion 
with a softened and even compassionate regard, “ I would *I 
could say more. I hear a secret voice, which tells me that 
you are even now walking in slippery places, and that your 
heart is not at ease.” 

He stopped, and seemed to seek earnestly for some phrases 
or arguments which he might suppose likely to influence a 
courtier placed as he imagined Ingiesant to be; but before he 


CHAP. XXVII.] 


A ROMANCE. 


319 


resumed, the latter excused himself on the ground of his at¬ 
tendance on the Duke, and, promising to see him again on his 
return, left the room. 

Inglesant found a carriage waiting to convey him to the 
“ Hospital of Death,” as the monastic house adjoining the 
public Campo Santo was called. The religious performance 
had already begun. Passing through several sombre corridors 
and across a courtyard, he was ushered into the Duke’s presence, 
who sat, surrounded by his Court and by the principal ecclesi¬ 
astics of the city, in an open balcony or loggia. As Inglesant 
entered by a small door in the back of the gallery a most extra¬ 
ordinary sight met his eyes. Beyond the loggia was a small 
yard or burial-ground, and beyond this the Campo Santo 
stretching out into the far country. The whole of the yard 
immediately before the s})ectators was thronged by a multitude 
of persons, of all ages and ranks, apparently just risen from the 
tomb. Many were utterly without clothing, others were attired 
as kings, bishops, and even popes. Their attitudes and conduct 
corresponded v^ith the characters in which they appeared, the 
ecclesiastics collecting in calm and sedate attitudes, while many 
of the rest, among whom kings and great men were not wanting, 
appeared in an extremity of anguish and fear. Beyond the 
sheltering walls which enclosed the court the dazzling heat 
brooded over the Campo Santo to the distant hills, and the 
funereal trees stood, black and sombre, against the glare of the 
yellow sky. At the moment of Inglesant’s entrance, it appeared 
that something had taken place of the nature of an excommuni¬ 
cation, and the ecclesiastics in the gallery were, according to 
custom, casting candles and flaming torches, which the croyxl 
of nude figures below were struggling and fighting to obtain. 
A wild yet solemn strain of music, that came apparently from 
the open graves, ascended through the fitful and half-stifled 
cries. 

The first sight that struck upon Inglesant’s sense, as he 
entered the gallery from the dark corridors, was the Imid yellow 
light beyond. The second was the wild confused crowd of 
leaping and stiuggling figures, in a strange and ghastly disarray, 
naked or decked as in mockery with the torn and disordered 
symbols of rank and wealth, rising as from the tomb, distracted 
and terror-stricken as at the last great assize. Tlie third was 
the figure of the Duke tmming to him, and the eyes of tlie 


320 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap, xxvri. 


priests and clergy fixed upon his face. The words that the 
fanatic had uttered had fallen upon a mind prepared to receive 
them, and upon a conscience already awakened to acknowledge 
their truth. A mysterious conviction laid hold upon his im¬ 
agination that the moment had arrived in which he was bound 
to declare himself, and by every tie which the past had knotted 
round him to influence the Duke to pursue a line of conduct 
from which his conscience and his better judgment revolted. 
On the one hand, a half-aroused and uncertain conscience, on 
the other, circumstance, habit, interest, inclination, perplexed 
his thoughts. The conflict was uneven, the result hardly 
doubtful The eyes of friends and enemies, of agents of the 
Holy See, of coiutiers and priests, were upon him; the inquir¬ 
ing glance of the aged Duke seemed to penetrate into his soul. 
He advanced to the ducal chair, the solemn music, that 
streamed up as from the grave, wavered and faltered as if 
consciousness and idea were nearly lost. Something of the 
old confusion overpowered his senses, the figures that sur¬ 
rounded him became shadowy and mireal, and the power of 
decision seemed no longer his own. 

Out of the haze of confused imagery and distracting thought 
which surrounded him, he heard 'with unspeakable amazement 
the Duke’s words,— 

“I have waited your coming, Mr. Inglesant, impatiently, 
for I have a commission to entrust you with, or rather my 
daughter, the Grand Duchess, has written urgently to me from 
Florence to request me to send you to her without a moment’s 
delay. Family matters relating to some in whom she takes the 
greatest interest, and who ai'e well known, she says, to yourself, 
are tlie causes which lead to this request.” 

Inglesant was too bewildered to speak, tie had believed 
himself quite unknown to the Grand Duchess, whom he had 
never seen, but as he had passed before her in the ducal recej)- 
tions at Florence. Who could these be in whom she took so 
great an interest, and who were known to him ? 

But the Duke went on, speaking with a certain melancholy 
in his tone. 

“ I have wished, Mr. Inglesant,” he said, “ to mark in some 
way the regard I have conceived for you, and the obligation 
under which I conceive myself to remain. It may be that, in 
the course that events are taking, it will no longer in a few 


A ROMANCE. 


321 


CHAP, xmi.] 

weeks be in my power to bestow favours upon any man. I 
desire, tlierefoi’e, to do what I have purposed before you leave 
the presence. I liave caused the necessary deeds to be prepared 
which bestow upon you a small fief in the Apennines, consisting 
of some farms and of the Villa-Castle of San Geoi’gio, where I 
myself in former days have passed many happy hours.” He 
stopped, and in a moment or two resumed abruptly, without 
finishing the sentence. 

“The revenue of the fief is not large, but its possession 
gives the title of Cavaliere to its owner, and its situation and 
the cliaracter of its neighbourhood make it a desirable and 
delightful abode. The letters of naturalization which are 
necessary to enable you to hold this property have been made 
out, and nothing is wanting but your acceptance of the gift. 
I offer it you with no conditions and no request save that, as 
far as in you lies, you will be a faithful servant to the Grand 
Duchess when I am gone.” 

The Duke paused for a moment, and then, turning slightly 
to his chaplain he said, “The reverend fathers will tell you 
that this affair has not been decided upon without their know¬ 
ledge, and that it 1ms their full approval.” 

These last words convinced Inglesant of the fact that had 
occurred. Although the Duke had said nothing on the subject, 
he felt certain that the deed of cession had been signed, and 
that for some reason or other he himself was considered by the 
clerical party to have been instrumental in obtaining this result, 
and to be deserving of reward accordingly. He had never, as 
we have seen, spoken to the Duke concerning the succession, 
and his position at the moment was certainly a peculiar one. 
Nothing was expected of him but that he should express his 
grateful thanks for the Duke’s favour, and leave the presence. 
Surely, at that moment, no law of heaven or earth could require 
him to break through the observances of civility and usage, to 
enter upon a subject upon which he was not addressed, and to 
refuse acts of favour offered to him with every grace and deli¬ 
cacy of manner. Whatever might be the case with other men, 
he certainly was not one to whom such a course was possible. 
He expressed his gratitude wdth all the grace of manner of 
which he wms capable, he assured the Duke of his readiness to 
start immediately for Florence, and he left the ducal presence 
before many minutes had passed away. 


322 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap. XX nil. 


He fi uiul before long that all his conjectures were correct. 
The Duk3 had signed the deed of cession, and the report which 
was sent to Rome by the Papal agents stated that, in the 
opinion of the most competent judges, this result was due to 
Inglesant’s influence. Before his anival the Duke had leaned 
strojigly towards the secular and anti-Papal interest, and had 
even encouraged heretical and Protestant emissaries. “ Avoid¬ 
ing with great skill all positive allusion to the subject,” the 
report went on to state, “ II Cavaliere Iiiglesant had thrown 
all his influence into the Catholic and religious scale, and liad 
by the loftiness of his sentiment and the attraction of his 
manner entirely won over the vacillating nature of the Duke.” 
Too much satisfaction, the Cardinal of Umbria and the heads 
of the Church in that city assured the Papal Court, could not 
be expressed at the manner in which the agent of the Society 
had fulfilled his mission. 

Inglesant’s departure from Umbria was so sudden that he 
had no opportunity of again seeing the stranger whom he had 
left in the palace, and he was afterwards at some trouble in 
obtaining any information respecting him. As far as could be 
ascertained, he waited in the palace, according to his promise, 
until the evening, when, finding that Inglesant did not return, 
he walked quietly forth, no man hindering him. What his 
subsequent fate was is involved in some obscurity ; but it woidd 
appear that, having ])ublicly insulted the Host in some cathe¬ 
dral in the south of Italy, he was arrested by the Holy Office, 
and thrown into prison, from which there is reason to believe 
he never emerged. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

Not very long after Inglesant had left for Ujubria, his friend, 
Don Agostino di Chigi, suddenly came to Rome. The Pope’s 
health was rapidly failing, and the excitement concerning his 
successor was becoming intense. The choice was generally con¬ 
sidered to lie between the Cardinals Barberini and di Chigi, 
though Cardinal Sacchetti was spoken of by some, probably 
however merely as a substitute, should both the other parties 
fail in electing their candidate. 


A ROBIANCE. 


323 


CHAr. XXVIII.] 

It was the policy of the Chigi family to conduct their 
matters with great caution; none of the family, with the 
exception of the Cardinal, were openly in Rome; and when 
Don Agostino arrived he resided in one of the deserted villas 
hidden among vineyards and the gardens of solitary convents, 
which covered the Palatine and the Aventine in the southern 
portion of Rome within the walls. He remained within or 
with the Cardinal during the day, but at night he ventured 
out into the streets, and visited the adherents of his family and 
those who were working to secure his uncle’s elevation. 

One night the fathers of the Oratory gave a concert at 
which one of the best voices in Rome was to sing. It happened 
that Don Agostino passed the gate as the company were assem¬ 
bling, and as he did so the street was blocked by the train of 
some great personage who arrived in a sedan of blue velvet 
embroidered with silver, accompanied by several gentlemen and 
servants. Among the former, Agostino recognized the Cavaliere 
di Guardino, the brother of Lauretta, of whose acquaintance 
with Inglesant at Florence it may be remembered he was aware, 
and witli him another man whose appearance seemed to recall 
some distant reminiscence to his mind. He could, however, 
see him but imperfectly in the flickering torchlight. 

Apart from his desire to remain unrecognized in Rome, 
Agostino had no desire to associate with the Cavaliere, of 
whose character he had a very bad opinion. To his annoyance, 
therefore, as the sedan entered the courtyard, the two persons 
he had noticed, instead of following their patron, turned round, 
and in leaving the doorway met Agostino face to face. The 
Cavaliere recognized him immediately, and appeared to grasp 
eagerly the opportunity to accost him. He began by compli¬ 
menting him on the near prospect of his uncle’s elevation to 
the Papacy, professing to consider the chances of his election 
very good indeed, and added that he presumed business con¬ 
nected with these matters had brought him to Rome. To this 
Agostino replied that, so far as he knew, his uncle had no ex¬ 
pectation of such an honour being at all likely to be offered 
him, and that private affairs of his own, of a very delicate 
nature,—of a kind indeed which a gentleman of the Cavaliere’s 
known gallantry could w^ell understand,—had brought him to 
Rome, as indeed he might see from the secrecy he maintained, 
and by his not being present at any of the entertainments 


3-24 


JOHN INGLESANT; [cHAP. XXTIII, 

Avliicli were going forward. He then inquired in his turn why 
the Cavaliere had not entered the college. The other made 
some evasive answer, but it appeared to Agostino tliat both 
the Cavaliere and his companion were not on tlie most familiar 
terms with the nobleman they had accompanied, although it 
might suit their purpose to appear in his train. Gnardino 
indeed changed the subject hastily, and spoke of Inglesant, 
praising him highly. He inquired whether the Cardinal di 
Chigi was acquainted with him, and whether it was likely that 
either as an attendant upon him or upon Cardinal Hinuccini, 
Inglesant would be admitted into the conclave. 

Don Agostino replied vaguely that Inglesant was then at 
Umbria, and tliat he could ofier no opinion as to the probability 
of the latter part of his inquiry. 

He thought that he could see from the expression on the 
other’s face that the Cavaliere thought that he was deceiving 
liim, and that he jumped at once to the conclusion that, as the 
attendant of one or otlier of the Cardinals, Inglesant would bo 
present at the conclave. 

Gnardino went on to speak of Inglesant’s character, regret¬ 
ting the craze of mind, as he called it, which his ill-health had 
produced, and which rendered him, as he said, unfit for business 
or for taking his part in the affairs of life. He went on to 
speak with unconcealed contempt of Inglesant’s religious ideas 
and scruples, and of his association with Molinos; intimating, 
however, his opinion that it wouhl not be impossible to over¬ 
come these scruples, could a suitable temptation be found. 
These fancies once removed, he continued, Inglesant’s value as 
a trusted and secret agent would be greatly increased. 

He seemed to be talking abstractedly and as a perfectly 
disinterested person, who was discussing an interesting topic of 
morals or mental peculiarity. 

Agostino could not understand his drift. He answered him 
that the Jesuits did not need unscrupulous bravoes. If they 
did, they could be found at every street corner by the score. 
He added that he imagined that the services which Inglesafit 
had already performed, and might perform again, were of a 
special and delicate character, for which his temperament and 
habit of mind, which were chiefly the result of the Society’s 
training, especially fitted him. 

They had by this time reached the Corso, and Agostino 


A ROMANCE. 


325 


CHAP. XXVIII.] 

took the opportunity of parting with his companions, excusing 
himself on the ground of his pretended assignation. 

He was no sooner gone tlian the Cavaliere, according to the 
narrative which was afterwards related by Malvolti, began to 
explain more clearly than he had hitherto done what his 
expectations and intentions were. He was forced to confide 
in Malvolti more than he otherwise would have done, to pre¬ 
vent his ridding himself of Inglesant’s presence by violent 
means. 

When the Italian fii'st saw Inglesant, whom he had never 
met in England, in the theatre in Florence, he vras startled and 
terrified by his close resemblance to his murdered brother; and 
his first thought was that his victim had returned to earth, and, 
invisible to others, was permitted to avenge himself upon his 
murderer by haunting and terrifying his paths. When he 
discovered, however, that the Cavaliere not only saw the 
appeai'ance which had so alarmed him, but could tell him who 
Inglesant w^as, and to a certain extent what the motives w^ere 
which had brought him to Italy, his superstitious fears gave 
place to more material apprehensions and expedients. He at 
once resolved to assassinate Inglesant on leaving the theatre, in 
the first street through which he might pass—a purpose which 
he might easily have accomplished during Inglesant’s careless 
and unguarded wanderings round the house of Lauretta’s father 
that night. From this intention he was with difficulty diverted 
by the reasoning of the Cavaliere, who represented to him the 
rashness of such an action, protected as Inglesant was by the 
most powerful of Societies, which would not fail to punish any 
act which deprived it of a useful agent; the unnecessary char¬ 
acter of the attempt, Inglesant being at present in complete 
ignorance that his enemy was near him ; and above all, the 
folly of destroying a person who might otherwise be made the 
medium of great personal profit and advantage. He explained 
to Malvolti Inglesant’s connection with the Chigi family, and 
the position of influence he would occupy should the Cardinal 
be elected to the Popedom; finally, he went so far as to hint 
at the possibility of an alliance between Malvolti and his sister, 
should Inglesant remain uninjured. 

Malvolti had only arrived in Florence on the previous day, 
and the Cavaliere met him accidentally in the theatre; but 
Guardino’s plans with relation to Inglesant and his sister were 


326 


JOHN INGLESANl 


[chap. XXVIII. 


already so far matured, that he had arranged for the abrupt 
departure of his father and Lauretta from Florence. His object 
was to keep in his own hands a powerful magnet of attraction, 
which would bind, as he supposed, Inglesant to his interests; 
but he was by no means desirous that he should marry his 
sister immediately, if at all. The election for the Papacy was 
of very uncertain issue, and if the di Chigi faction failed, Ingle- 
sant’s alliance would be of little value. He had two strings 
to his bow. Malvolti, between whom and the Cavaliere asso¬ 
ciation in vice and even crime had riveted many a bond of 
interest and dependence, was closely connected with the Bar- 
berini faction, as an unscrupulous and useful tool. Should 
the Cardinal Barberini be elected Pope, or should Cardinal 
Sacchetti, who was in his interest, be chosen, his own connec¬ 
tion with Malvolti might be of great value to the Cavaliere, 
and the greater service the latter could render to the Barberini 
faction in the approaching crisis the better. The weak point 
of his position on this side was the character of Malvolti, and 
the subordinate position he occupied among the adherents of 
tlie Barberini. On the other hand, if Cardinal Chigi were the 
future Pontiff, the prospects of any one connected with Ingle¬ 
sant would be most brilliant, as the latter, from his connection 
with the Jesuits, and as the favourite of the Pope’s nephew, 
would at once become one of the most powerful men in Italy. 
The weak point on this side was that his hold on Inglesant was 
very slight, and that, even supposing it to be strengthened by 
marriage with Lauretta, Inglesant’s character and temper were 
such as would probably make him useless and impracticable in 
the attempt to secure the glittering and often illicit advantages 
which would be within his reach. Between this perplexing 
choice the only wise course appeared to be to temporize with 
both parties, and to attempt, in the meantime, to secure an 
influence with either. The fortunes both of the Cavaliere and 
of Malvolti were at this mninent pretty nearly desperate, and 
their means of influencing any one very small; indeed, having 
wasted what had once been considerable wealth and talent, 
there remained nothing to the Cavaliere but his sister, and of 
that last possession he was prepared to make unscrupulous use. 
It would be of small advantage to him to give his sister’s hand 
to Inglesant unless he could fii’st, by her means, corrupt and 
debase his conscience and that lofty standard of conduct which 


CHAP. XXVIII.] 


A EOMANCE. 


327 


he appeared, to the Cavaliere at least, unswervingly to follow; 
and the Italian devil at his side suggested a means to this end 
as wild in conception as the result proved it impotent and badly 
planned. 

This Italian devil was not Malvolti, though that person was 
one of his most successful followers and imitators. When the 
inspired writer has described the princes and angels which rule 
the diftereiit nations of the earth, he does not go on to enumer¬ 
ate the distinct powers of evil which, in different countries, 
pursue their divers malefic courses; yet it would seem that 
those existences are no less real than the others. That the 
character of the inhabitants of any country has much to do in 
forming a distinct devil for that country no man can doubt ; or 
that in consequence the temptations which beset mankind in 
certain countries are of a distinct and peculiar kind. This fact 
is sometimes of considerable advantage to the object of the 
tempter’s art, for if, acting upon his knowledge of the character 
of any people, this merely local devil lays snares in the path of 
a stranger, it is not impossible that the bait may fail. This 
was veiy much what happened to John Inglesant. Of the sins 
which were really his temptations the Cavaliere knew nothing; 
but he could conceive of certain acts which he concluded Ingle- 
Bant would consider to be sins. These acts were of a gross and 
sensual nature; for the Italian devil, born of the fleshly lusts 
of the people, was unable to form temptations for the higher 
natures, and of course his pupils were equally impotent. The 
result was singular. Acting upon the design of ruining Ingle- 
sant’s moral sense, of debasing the ideal of conduct at which 
he aimed, and of shattering and defiling what the Cavaliere 
considered the fantastic purity of his conscience, he formed 
a scheme which had the effect of removing Inglesant from a 
place where he was under the strongest temptation and in 
the greatest danger of violating his conscience, and of placing 
him in circumstances of trial which, though dangerous, he was 
still, from the peculiarity of his character, much better able to 
resist. 

A marriage connection with Inglesant would at this juncture 
be of little avail; but a wild and illicit passion, which would 
involve him in a course of licentious and confused action, in 
which the barriers of morality and the scruples of conscience 
wumld be alike annihilated, and the whole previous nature of the 


328 


JOHN INGLESANT ; 


[chap. XXIX. 


victim of lawless desire altered, would, if any agent could pro¬ 
duce so great a change, transform Inglesant into the worldly- 
minded and unscrupulous accomplice that the Cavaliere wished 
him to become. How great the fall would be he could of course 
in no way estimate; but he had sufficient insight to perceive that 
the shock of it would probably be sufficient (acting upon a con¬ 
sciousness so refined and delicate as that of Inglesant) to render 
recovery, if ever attained, very difficult and remote. 

Upon this wild scheme he acted. He had removed his 
sister when he had thought that Inglesant had been suffi¬ 
ciently ensnared to make his after course certain and precipitate. 
Inglesant’s character, which was so very imperfectly known to 
the Cavaliere, and circnmstances, such as his confinement in the 
pest-house, had delayed the consummation of the plot. But 
the Cavaliere conceived that the time had now arrived for its 
completion. He brought his sister back to Florence, and 
placed her with the Grand Duchess, in some subordinate situa¬ 
tion which his family and his sister’s character enabled him to 
obtain. Having had some previous knowledge of her, the 
Duchess soon became attached to Lauretta, and obtained her 
confidence. From her she learnt Inglesant’s story and charac¬ 
ter, and wished to see him at the Court. While the two ladies 
were planning schemes for future pleasure, the Cavaliere suddenly 
appeared at Florence, and informed his sister that he had con¬ 
cluded, with the approbation of his father, a marriage contract 
between herself and Malvolti. 

Terrified by this threatened connection with a man whose 
person she loathed and whose character she detested, Lauretta 
flew to the Duchess and entreated her to send at once for Ingle¬ 
sant, who, they were both aware, was at that moment with the 
Duke of Umbria, the Grand Duchess’s aged father. With the 
result we are acquainted. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

On his arrival at Florence Inglesant found himself at once feted 
and caressed, though the nature of his mission to Umbria, 
antngoiiistic as his supposed influence had been to the interests 
of the ducal party, might naturally have procured for him a 


CfTAP. XXIX.] 


A ROMANCE. 


329 


far different reception. Trained as he had been in courts, the 
caprices of princes’ favour did not seem strange to him, and 
were taken at their true worth. Unsuspicious, therefore, of 
any special danger, relieved from the intolerable strain which 
the position at Umbria had exerted upon his conscience, delighted 
with the society of his recovered mistress, and flattered by the 
attentions of the Duchess and of the whole Court, he gave him¬ 
self up freely to the enjoyments of the hour. Plentifully supplied 
with money from his own resources, from the kindness of the 
aged Duke, and from the subsidies of his patrons at Rome, he 
engaged freely in the parties formed for tlie performance of 
masques and interludes, in which the Court delighted, and 
became conspicuous for the excellence of his acting and in¬ 
vention. 

But it was not the purpose of the demon that followed on 
his footsteps to give him longer repose than might lull his 
senses, and weaken his powers of resisting evil. Day after day 
devoted to pleasure paved the way for the final catastrophe, 
until the night arrived when the plot was fully ripe. Supper 
was over, and the Court sat down again to play. Inglesant 
remembered afterwards, though at the time it did not attract 
his attention, that several gentlemen, all of them friends of Guar- 
dino, paid him particular attention, and insisted on drinking 
with him, calling for different kinds of wine, and recommending 
them to his notice. The saloons were crowded and very hot, 
and when Inglesant left the supper room and came into the 
brilliant marble hall lighted with great lustres, where the Court 
was at play, he was more excited than was liis wont. The 
Court was gathered at different tables—a very large one in the 
centre of the hall, and other smaller ones around. The brilliant 
dresses, the jewels, the beautiful women, the reflections in the 
numberless mirrors, made a dazzling and mystifying impression 
on his brain. The play was very high, and at the table to 
which Inglesant sat down especially so. He lost heavily, and 
this did not tend to calm his nerves; he doubled his stake, 
with all the money he had with him, and lost again. As he 
rose from the table a page touched his elbow and handed him 
a small note carefully sealed and delicately perfumed. It was 
addressed to him by his new title, “II Cavaliere di San Georgio,” 
and scarcely knowing what he did, he opened it. It was from 
Lauretta. 


330 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chav. XX rx. 


“ Cavaliere, 

“Will you come to me in the Duchess’s lodgings 
before the Court rises from play ? I need your help. L.” 

Inglesant turned to look for the boy, who, lie expected, was 
waiting for him. He was not far off, and Inglesant followed 
him without a word. They passed through many corridors and 
rooms richly furnished until they reached the lodgings of the 
Grand Duchess. The night was sultry, and through the open 
windows above the gardens tlic strange odours that are born of 
darkness and of niglit entered the palace. In the dark arcades 
the nightingales were singing, preferring gloom and mystery to 
the light in which all other creatures rejoice ; and in the still¬ 
ness the murmur of brooks and the splash of the fountains 
oppressed the air with an unearthly and unaccustomed sound. 
Around the casements festoons of harmless and familiar flowers 
and leaves assumed wild and repulsive shapes, as if transformed 
into malicious demons who made men their sport. Inglesant 
thought involuntarily of those plants that are at enmity with 
man, which are used for enchantments and for poisoning, and 
whose very scent is death ; such saturnine and fatal flowers 
seemed more at home in the lovely Italian night than the 
innocent plants which witness to lovers’ vows, and upgn which 
divines moralize and preach. The rooms of the Duchess were 
full of perfume of the kind that enervates and lulls the sense. 
It seemed to Inglesant as though he were treading the intricate 
pathways of a dream, careless as to what befell him, yet with a 
passionate longing which urged him forward, heedless of a 
restraining voice which he was even then half-conscious that at 
other times he should have lieard. The part of the palace 
where he was seemed deserted, and the page led him through 
more than one anteroom without meeting any one, until they 
reached a curtained door, which the boy opened, and directed 
Inglesant to enter. He did so, and found himself at once in 
the presence of Lauretta, who was lying upon a low seat at the 
open window. The room was lighted by several small lamps 
in different positions, giving an ample, yet at the same time a 
soft and dreamy light. Lauretta was carelessly dressed, yet, in 
the soft light, and in her negligent attitude, there was some¬ 
thing that made her beauty the more attractive, and her manner 
to Inglesant was unrestrained and clinging. Her growing afiec- 


A ROMANCE. 


331 


CHAP. XXIX.] 

tion, the urgency of her need, and the circumstances of the 
hour, caused her innocently to speak and act in a way the mosc 
fitted to promote her brother’s atrocious purposes. 

“ Cavaliere,” she said, “I have sent for you because I have 
no friend but you. I have sent for you to help me against my 
own family—my own brother—my father even, whom I love— 
whom I loved—more thf.n all the world beside. They are 
determined to marry me to a man whom I hate; to the man 
M-hom you hate; to that Signore Malvolti, who, though they 
deny it, is, I am fully persuaded, the murderer of your brother; 
to that wretch whom Italy even refuses to receive; who, but 
for his useful crimes, would be condemned to a death of torment. 
My brother tells me that he will be here to-morrow to see me 
and demand my consent. He brings an authorization from my 
father, and insists upon the contract being made without delay. 
I would die rather than submit to such a fate, but it is not 
necessary to die. I must, however, leave the Court and escape 
from my brother’s wardship. If I can reach some place of 
safety, where I can gain time to see my father, I am certain 
that I shall be able to move him. It cannot be that he will 
condemn me to such a fate,—me ! the pride and pleasure of his 
life. He must be deceived and misled by some of these wicked 
intrigues and manoeuvres which ruin the happiness and peace 
of men.” 

“lam wholly yours,” said Inglesant; “ whatever you desire 
shall be done. Have you spoken to the Duchess 

“The Duchess advises me to fly,” replied Lauretta; “she 
says the Duke will not interfere between a father and his child; 
especially now, when all Italy hangs in suspense concerning the 
Papacy, and men are careful whom they offend. She advises 
me to go to the convent of St. Catherine of Pistoia, where I 
lodged not many years ago while my father was in France. 
The Abbess is a cousin of my father’s ; she is a kind woman, 
and I can persuade her to keep me for a short time at least. I 
wish to go to-night. Will you take meP’ 

She had never looked so lovely in Inglesant’s eyes as she 
did while she spoke. The pleading look of her dark eyes, and 
the excitement of her manner, usually so reserved and calm, 
added charms to her person of which he had previously been 
unconscious. In that country of formal restraint and suspicion, 
of hurried, furtive interviews, a zest was given to accidental 


332 JOHN INGLESANT , [ciIAP. XXIX. 

freedom of intercourse siicli as the more unrestricted life of 
France and England knew little of. In spite of a suspicion of 
treachery, which in that country was never absent, Inglesant 
felt his frame aglow with devotion to this lovely creature, who 
thus threw herself unreservedly into his keeping. He threw 
himself upon a cushion at Lauretta’s feet, and encircled her 
with his arms. She spoke of youth and life and pleasure,—of 
youth that was passing away so rapidly; of life that had been 
to her dreary and dull enough ; of her jealously-guarded Italian 
home, of her convent cell, of her weak and helpless lather, of 
her tyrannous brother ; of pleasure, of which she had dreamed 
as a girl, but which seemed to fly l)efore her as she advanced; 
finally of himself, whom, from the first day she had seen him 
in her father’s room, she had loved, whom absence had only 
endeared, her first and only friend. 

He spoke of love, of protection, of help and succour for the 
rest of life; of happy days to come at San Georgio, when all 
these troubles should have passed away, when at last he should 
escape from intrigue and State policy, and they could make 
their home as joyous and free from care as that house of a 
Cardinal, on a little hilly hank near Veletri, whence you can 
see the sea, and which is called Monte Joiosa. He spoke of an 
Idyllic dream which could not long have satisfied either of 
them,—himself especially, but which pleased them at that 
moment, with an innocent and delicate fancy which calmed 
and purified their excited thoughts. Then, as the hour passed 
by, he rose from her embrace, promising to provide horses, and 
when the palace was quiet, to meet her at the end of one of the 
long avenues that crossed the park; for the Court was not at 
the Pitti Palace, but at the Poggia Imperiale without the walls 
of Florence. 

The soft night air played upon Inglesant’s forehead as he 
led his horses to the end of a long avenue, and waited for the 
lady to join him. He did not wait long; she came gliding past 
the fountains, by the long rows of orange and cypress hedges, 
and across the streaks of moonlight among the trees that closed 
the gardens and the park. As he lifted her into the saddle, 
her glance was partly scared and partly trustful: he felt as 
though he were moving in a delicious dream. 

As they rode out of the park she told him that she had 
received a message from the Duchess, recommending her to stop 


CHAP. XXIX,] 


A ROMANCE. 


333 


at a pavilion on the borders of the great chase, beyond the 
Achaiano Palace, half-way to Pistoia, which the Duchess used 
.sometimes when the Duke was diverting himself in the chase. 
She had sent a messenger to prepare the people who kept the 
pavilion for their coming. There was something strange in this 
message, Lauretta said, which was brought, not by one of the 
Duchess’s usual pages, but by a boy who had not been long at 
the palace, and who scarcely waited to give his message, so 
great was his hurry. It seemed of little moment to Inglesant 
who brought the message, or whether any treachery were at 
work or no ; he was only conscious of a delicious sense of coming 
pleasure which made him reckless of all beside. Along the first 
few miles of their road they passed nothing but the long lines 
of elms, planted between ridges of corn, upon which the vines 
were climbing in already luxuriant wreaths. Presently, how¬ 
ever, after they had passed the Aidiaiano Palace, the country 
changed, and they came within the confines of the Duke’s chase, 
thirty miles in compass, planted with cork trees and ilex, with 
underwood of myrtle thickets. Through these shades, lovely 
indeed by day, but weird and unhealthy by night, they rode 
silently, startled every now and then by strange sounds that 
issued from the forest depths. The ground was fenny and 
uneven, and moist exhalations rose out of the soil and floated 
aenjss the path. 

“ The Duchess never sleeps at the pavilion,” said Lauretta 
at last suddenly; “it is dangerous to sleep in tlie forest.” 

“ It will be as well to stop an hour or so, however,” said 
Inglesant, “ else we shall be at Pistoia before they open the 
gates.” 

Presently, in the brilliant moonlight, they saw the pointed 
roofs of the pavilion on a little rising-ground, w’th the forest 
tre es comin up closely to the walls. The moon w as now high 
in the heavens, and it was as light as day. The upper windows 
of the pavilion were open, and within it lights were burning. 
The door was opened to them before they knocked, and the 
keeper of tire pavilion came to meet them, accompanied by a 
boy who took the horses. The man showed no surprise at their 
coming, only saying some servants of the Duchess had been there 
a few hours previously, and had prepared a repast in the din¬ 
ing-room, forewarning him that he should expect visitors. He 
accompanied them upstaiis, ior tiiey saw nothing of the other 


334 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap. XXIX. 


inmates of the place. The rooms were arranged with a sort of 
rustic luxury, and were evidently intended for repose during the 
heat of the day. A plentiful and delicate collation was sprejid- 
on one of the tables, with abundance of fruit and wine. The 
place looked like the magic creation of an enchanter’s wand, 
raised for purposes of evil from the unhealthy marsh, and ready 
to sink again, when that malefic pm’jDose was fulfilled, into the 
weird depths from wdiich it rose. 

The old man showed them the other rooms of the apartment 
and left them. At the door he turned back and said,— 

“ I should not advise the lady to sleep here; the miasma 
from the forest is very fatal to such as are not used to it.” 

Inglesant looked at him, but could not perceive that he 
intended his words to have any deeper meaning than the obvious 
one. He said,— 

“We shall stay only an hour or two; let the horses be 
ready to go on.” 

The man left them, and they sat down at the table. 

The repast was served in Faience ware of a strange delicate 
blue, and consisted of most of the delicacies of the season, with 
a profusion of wine. 

“ This was not ordered by the Duchess,” said Lauretta. 

“ We are safe from poison, Mignone,” said Inglesant; “ to 
destroy you as w^ell as me would defeat all purposes. Hot that 
I believe the Cavaliere would wish me deai He rather hopes 
that I may be of use to him. Let us drink to him.” 

And lie filled a glass for Lauretta of the Montepulciano, the 
“ King of Wines,” and drank himself. 

Lauretta was evidently frightened, yet she followed his 
example and drank. The night air was heavy and close, not 
a breath of wind stirred the lights, though every window was 
thrown open, and the shutters that closed the loggia outside 
were drawn back. In the brilliant moonlight every leaf of the 
great forest shone with an unnatural distinctness, which, set in 
a perfect silence, became terrible to see. The sylvan arcades 
seemed like a painted scene-piece upon a Satanic stage super- 
naturally alight to further deeds of sin, and silent and unpeopled, 
lest the wrong should be interrupted or checked. To Inglesant s 
excited fancy evil beings thronged its shadowy paths, present to 
the spiritual sense, though concealed of set purpose from the 
feeble human sight. The two found their eyes drawn with a 


CHAP. XXIX.] A ROMANCE. 335 

kind of fascination to this strange sight, and Inglesant arose and 
closed the shutters before the nearest casement. 

They felt more at ease when the mysterious forest was shut 
out. But Lauretta was silent and troubled, and Inglesant’s 
efforts to cheer and enliven her w6re not successful. The de¬ 
licious wines to which he resorted to remove his own uneasi¬ 
ness and to cure his companion’s melancholy, failed of their 
effect. At last she refused to drink, and rising up suddenly, 
she exclaimed,— 

“ Oh, it is terribly hot. I cannot bear it. I wish we had 
not come !” 

She wandered from the room in which they sat, through 
the curtained doorway into the next, which was furnished with 
couches, and sank down on one of them. Inglesant followed 
her, and, as if the heat felt stifling also to him, went out upon 
the open verandali, and looked upon the forest once more. 

Excited by the revels of the past few days, heated with 
wine, with the night ride, and with the overpowering closeness 
of the air, the temptation came upon him with a force which 
he had neither power nor desire to resist. He listened, but 
no sound met his ear, no breath stirred, no living being moved, 
no disturbance need be dreaded from any side. From the 
people in the pavilion he looked for no interference, from the 
object of his desires he had probably no need to anticipate any 
disinclination but what might easily be soothed away. The 
universal custom of the country in which he was now almost 
naturalized sanctioned such acts. The hour was admirably 
chosen, the place perfectly adapted in every way, as if the result 
not of happy chance but deeply concerted plan. 

Why then did he hesitate ? Did he still partly hope that 
some miracle would happen ? or some equally miraculous change 
take place in his mind and will to save him from himself? It 
is true the place and the temptation were not of his own seek¬ 
ing—so far he was free from blame; but he had not come 
wholly unharmed out of the fiery trial at Umbria, and, by a 
careless walk since he came to Florence, he had prepared the 
way for the tempter, and this night even he had disregarded 
the warning voice and drifted recklessly onward. We walk of 
our own free will, heated and inflamed by wine, down the 
flowery path which we have ourselves decorated with garlands, 
jand we murmur because we reach the fatal goal 


336 


JOHN INGLESANT : 


[chap. XXIX. 


He gazed another moment over the illumined forest, which 
seemed transfigured in the moonlight and the stillness into an 
unreal landscape of the dead. The poisonous mists crept over 
the tops of the cork trees, and flitted across the long vistas in 
spectral forms, cowled and shrouded for the grave. Beneath 
the gloom indistinct figures seemed to glide,—the personation 
of the miasma that made the place so fatal to human life. 

He turned to enter the room, but even as he turned a 
sudden change came over the scene. The deadly glamour of 
the moonlight faded suddenly, a calm pale solemn light settled 
over the forest, the distant line of liills shone out distinct and 
clear, the evil mystery of the place departed whence it came, a 
fresli and cooling breeze sprang up and passed through the 
rustling wood, breathing pureness and life. The dayspring 
was at hand in the eastern sky. 

The rustling breeze was like a whisper from heaven that re¬ 
minded him of his better self. It wmuld seem that hell overdid 
it; the very stillness for miles around, the almost concerted 
plan, sent flashing through his brain the remembrance of another 
house, equally guarded for a like purpose—a house at Newiiham 
near Oxford, into which years ago he had himself forced his 
way to render help in such a case as this. Here was the same 
thing liappeiiing over again 'with the actors changed; was it 
possible that such a change had been wrought in him 1 The 
long past life of those days rushed into his mind: the sacra¬ 
mental Sundays, the repeated vows, the light of heaven in the 
soul, the kneeling forms in Little Gidding Chapel, the face of 
Mary Collet, the loveliness that blessed the earth where she 
walked, her death-bed, and her dying words. What so rarely 
liappens happened here. The revulsion of feeling, the rush of 
recollection and association, was too powerful for the flesli. 
The reason and the affections rallied together, and, trained into 
efficiency by past discipline, regained the mastery by a supreme 
effort, even at the very moment of unsatisfied desire. But 
the struggle was fierce; he was torn like the demon-haunted 
child in the gospel story; but, as in that story, the demon was 
expelled. 

He came back into the room. Lauretta lay upon a couch 
with rich drapery and cushions, her face buried in her hands. 
The cloak and hood in wliich she had ridden w^ere removed, 
and the graceful outline of her figine was rendered more allur- 


CHAP. XXIX.] 


A ROMANCE. 


337 


ing by the attitude in which she lay. As he entered she raised 
her head from her hands, and looked at him with a strange, 
apprehensive, expectant gaze. He remained for a moment 
silent, his face very pale; then he said, slowly and uncertainly, 
like a man speaking in a dream,— 

“ The fatal miasma is rising from the plain. Lauretta, this 
place is safe for neither of us, we had better go on.” 

* * * ill 

The morning was cloudy and chill. They had not ridden far 
before a splash of thunder-rain fell and the trees dripped dis¬ 
mally. A sense of discomfort and disappointment took pos¬ 
session of Inglesant, and so far fi-om deriving consolation from 
his conquest, he seemed torn by the demon of discontent. He 
was half-conscious that his companion was regretting the evil 
and luxurious house they hu.i left. The ride to Pistoia was 
silent and depressed. As they passed through the streets, 
early as it was, they were watched by two figures half concealed 
by jirojecting walls. One of them was the Cavaliere, the other 
was tall and dark. Whether it was the devil in the person of 
Malvolti, or Malvolti himself, is not of much consequence, nor 
would the difference be great. In either case the issue was 
the same,—the devil’s plot had failed. It is not so easy to 
ruin him with whom the pressure of Christ’s hand yet lingers 
in the palm. 

When Inglesant presented himself again at the Convent 
grate, after a few hours’ sleepless unrest at an inn, he was 
refused admittance; nor did repeated applications during that 
day and the next meet with a more favourable response. He 
became the prey of mortification and disgust that, having had 
the prize in his hand, he had of his own free will passed it into 
the keeping of another. On the evening of the third day, how 
ever, he received a note from Lauretta informing him that her 
brotlier had consented to postpone her betrothal to Malvolti 
indefinitely, and that she, on her part, had promised not to see 
Inglesant again until the Papal election had been decided. She 
entreated her lover not to attempt to disturb this compromise, 
as by so doing he would only injure her whom he had promised 
to help. She promised to be true, and did not doubt but that, 
having obtained the delay she sought, she should be able to 
gain her father’s consent to their marriage, especially if the 
Papal election took the course they hoped it would. 

z 


338 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap. XXX. 


There was something cold and formal about the wording of 
this note, which, however, might be explained by its contents 
having been dictated to the writer; but, unsatisfactory as it 
was, Inglesant was compelled to acquiesce in the request it 
contained. He was angry and disappointed, and it must be 
admitted that he had some cause. His mistress and his plea¬ 
sant life at the ducal Court had vanished in the morning mist 
and rain, like the delusive pleasures of a dream, and the regret 
which a temptation yielded to would leave behind is not always 
counterbalanced by a corresponding elation when the trial is 
overcome. He departed for Rome, having sent orders to 
Florence for his servants and baggage to meet him on the 
road, and the same night on which he entered the city Pope 
Innocent the Tenth expired. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

The portion of the Vatican Palace set apart for the election of 
the Pope, and called the Conclave, consisted of five halls or 
large marble rooms, two chapels, and a gallery seventy feet 
long. Each of these halls was divided temporarily into small 
apartments, running up both sides, with a broad alley between 
them, formed of wood, and covered with green or violet cloth. 
One of these apartments was assigned to each Cardinal with 
his attendants. The entrance to the whole of these rooms, halls, 
chapels, and gallery, was by a single door fastened by four locks 
and as many keys. As soon as the Cardinals had entered the 
Conclave this door was made fast, and the four keys were given 
to the four different orders of the city,—one to the Bishop of 
Rome, one to the Cardinals themselves, a third to the Roman 
Nobility, and the fourth to the Officer, a great noble, who kept 
the door. A wicket in the door, of which this Officer also kept 
the key, permitted the daily meals and other necessaries to be 
handed to the Cardinals’ servants, every dish being carefully 
examined before it was allowed to pass in. Within the Con¬ 
clave liglit and air were only obtained by sky-lights or windows 
opening upon interior courts, precluding communication from 
without. The gloom of the interior was so great, that candles 
were burnt throughout {he Conclave at noon-day. 


CHAP. XXX.] A ROMANCE , 339 

From the moment the Conclave was closed a silence of 
expectation and anxiety fell upon all Rome. The daily life of 
the city was hushed. The principal thoroughfares and fortresses 
were kept by strong detachments of armed troops, and the 
approaches to the mysterious door were jealously watched. 
Men spoke everywhere in whispers, and nothing but vague 
rumours of the proceedings within were listened to in the 
places of public resort, and in the coteries and gatherings of all 
ranks and conditions of the people. 

In the interior of the Conclave, for those who were confined 
within its singular seclusion, the day passed with a wearisome 
monotony marked only by intrigue not less wearisome. Early 
in the morning a tolled bell called the whole of its inmates to 
mass in one of the small Chapels darkened with stained glass, 
and lighted dimly by the tapers of the altar, and by a few wax 
candles fixed in brass sockets suspended from the yoof. The 
Cardinals sat in stalls down either side of the Cha^td, and at 
the lower end was a bar, kept by the master of the ceremonies 
and his assistants, behind which the attendants anij servants 
were allowed to stand. Mass being .over, a table was placed 
in front of the altar, upon which were a chalice and a silver 
bell. Upon six stools near the table are seated two. Cardinal- 
Bishops, two Cardinal-Priests, and two Cardinal-Deacons. 
Every Cardinal in his turn, upon the ringing of the bell, leaves 
his seat, and having knelt before the altar in silent prayer for 
the guidance of Heaven in his choice, goes round to ’tl;^e front of 
the table and drops a paper, upon which he has written- the 
name of a Cardinal, into the chalice, and returns in silence to 
his stall. 

A solemn and awful stillness pervades the scene, broken only 
by the tinkling of the silver bell. The Cardinals, one by one, 
some of them stalwart and haughty men, with a firm step and 
imperious glance, others old and decrepit, scarcely able to 
totter from their places to the altar, or to rise from their knees 
without help, advance to their mysterious choice. To the eye 
alone it was in truth a solemn and impressive scene, and by a 
heart instructed by the sense of sight only, the awful presence 
of God the Paraclete might, in accordance with the popular 
belief, be felt to hover above the Sacred Host; but in the 
entire assembly to whom alone the sight was given there was 
probably not one single heart to which such an idea was 


340 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap. XXX. 


present. The assembly was divided into different parties, each 
day by day intriguing and manoeuvring, by every art of policy 
and every inducement of worldly interest, to add to the number 
of its adherents. “If perchance,” says one well qualified to 
speak, “there entered into this Conclave any old Cardinal, 
worn by conflict with the Church’s enemies ‘in partibus infi- 
delium,’ amid constant danger of prison or of death, or perchance 
coming from amongst harmless peasants in country places, and 
by long absence from the centre of the Church’s polity, ignorant 
of the manner in wliich her Princes trod the footsteps of the 
Apostles of old, and by the memory of such conflict and of 
such innocence, and because of such ignorance, was led to 
entertain dreams of Divine guidance, two or three days’ experi¬ 
ence caused such an one to renounce all such delusion, and to 
return to his distant battlefield, and so to see Rome no more.” 

When every Cardinal has deposited his paper, the Cardinal- 
Bishop takes them out of the chalice one by one, and hands 
them to the Cardinal-Deacon, who reads out the name of the 
elected, but not of the Cardinal who had placed the paper in 
the chalice ('which is written on part cf the paper so folded 
that even the reader does not see it); and as he reads the 
name, every Cardinal makes a mark upon the scroll of names 
he has before him. When all the names have been read, the 
Cardinal-Priest, from a paper which he has prepared, reads the 
name of him who has had the most voices and the number of 
the votes. If the. number be more than two-thirds of the 
whole, the Cardinal wdio has received the votes is thereby 
elected Pope; but if not, the Cardinal-Priest rings the silver 
bell once more, and at the signal the master of the ceremonies. 
Monsignor Fabei, advances up the Chapel, followed by a groom 
caiTying a brazier of lighted coals, into which, in the face of 
the whole assembly, the papers are dropped one by one till all 
are consumed. 

At the beginning of the Conclave the Cardinals were always 
divided into two, if not more parties, of such relative strength 
as to make the attainment of such a majority by either of them 
impossible for many days. It was not until the persistent 
intrigues of a fortnight had increased the majority of any one 
Cardinal so much as to give a probability of his being ultimately 
elected, that the waverers of all sides, not willing to be known 
as the opponents of a new Pope, recorded their voices in his 


CHAP. XXX.] 


A ROMANCE. 


341 


favour, and thus raised the majf)rity to its necessary proportion. 
For tins very delicate matter occurred at this period of the 
election, that, should the requisite majority of voices be ob¬ 
tained, the master of the ceremonies and his brazier were no 
longer called for, but the whole of the papers were opened to 
their full extent, and the names of the voters given to the 
world, whereby, as one conversant in these matters observes, 
“ many mysteries and infidelities are brought to light.” It is 
evident, therefore, that, as the majority of any one Cardinal 
increased or showed signs of increasing, morning and evening, 
as the suffrages were taken, the voting became a very exciting 
and delicate matter. No one could be certain but that at the 
next voting the majority from the cause mentioned would 
suddenly swell to the necessary size, and every man’s name be 
made clear and plain on whose side he had been. 

Upon entering the Conclave the friends of Cardinal Chigi 
adopted a quiet policy, and waited for the progress of events to 
work for them. The abuses of the late Pontificate, and the 
excitement and indignation of popular opinion, had made it 
clear to all parties that it was necessary to elect a Pope whose 
character and reputation would restore confidence. In these 
respects no one seemed more qualified than Cardinal Chigi, 
who was supposed to possess all the qualifications necessary to 
ensure the Romans from the apprehension of a revival of the 
past disorders, and to inspire the whole Christian world with 
the hopes of witnessing a worthy successor of St. Peter display¬ 
ing the Christian virtues from the Papal Chair. The great 
reputation he had gained at Munster, the determination he was 
said to have manifested to reform all abuses, the authority and 
influence he derived from his post of Secretary of State, his 
attractive and gracious manner, the recommendation of the late 
Pope upon his death-bed,—all tended to bring his name promi¬ 
nently forward. He was supported by the Spanish Cardinals, 
chiefly on account of the enmity of the French Court and of 
his professed opposition to Cardinal Mazarin. 

But, in spite of these advantages, the enmity of the French 
Court, and the opposition of the Barberini family, the relations 
and supporters of the late Pope, made it necessary for his friends 
to observe extreme caution. The French Cardinals were ordered 
to vote for Sacchetti, and Cardinal Barberini for the present 
suD^orted him also, with ail his party, chiefly because he had 


342 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap. XXX. 


not yet made terms with the Spanish Court, which opposed 
Sacc-hetti; hut also, as was supposed, because he himself had 
aspirations towards the Papal Chair, should he find the electors 
favourable to such a scheme. 

•Upon the entrance into the Conclave, therefore, Cardinal 
Sacchetti immediately obtained thirty-two or thirty-three votes. 
These were not quite so many as the Barberini expected, and 
indeed had a right to count upon, after the professions which 
the Cardinals of the party had made. This was owing to 
the defection of some memoers of what was called the Flying 
Squadron, composed chiefly of young Cardinals, who were sup¬ 
posed to be devoted to the Barberini, but of whom several were 
secretly favourable to Cardinal Chigi. 

The Spanish faction, which was numerous enough to have 
secured the election of any Cardinal had it been united, but the 
members of which were agreed upon nothing but their determined 
opposition to Sacchetti, contented itself with voting negatively at 
every scrutiny, making use of the form “ accedo nemini.” This 
course was pursued for two entire months, during which time 
the scrutinies were taken regularly morning and evening, alw'ays 
with a slightly varying but indecisive result. 

It would be difficult to realise the wearisomeness which 
reigned in the Conclave during so protracted a period. The 
crowding together of so large a number of persons in a few 
apartments, the closeness of the air, and the unbroken monotony 
of the hours that passed so slowly, made the confinement almost 
intolerable. One Cardinal was taken ill, and was obliged to be 
removed. The great gallery was generally used by the Car¬ 
dinals themselves, for exercise and conversation, while their 
attendants were compelled to content themselves with their 
masters’ apartments, or the corridors and passages. Those 
which opened on the interior courts, and thereby afforded some 
fresh air, were especially reworted to. Communication from 
without, though in theory absolutely prevented, was really 
frequent, all the chief among the Cardinals receiving advices 
from foreign Courts, and conveying intelligence thither them¬ 
selves. 

At intervals the whole of the inmates were assembled to 
listen to Father Qusechi, preacher to the Conclave, a Jesuit, 
and secretly in favour of Cardinal Chi^, as was the Society in 
general. The sermon was so contrived as to influence its heiirers 


CHAP. XXX.] A ROMANCE. S43 

considerably by its evident application to the manners and con¬ 
duct of the Cardinal. 

The famous De Retz, then an exile from France and a sup¬ 
porter of Chigi, by \vlioin he always sat in the Chapel, was the 
principal intriguer in his favour. He was in communication 
with the nominal supporters of Barberini, who sent him intelli¬ 
gence by Monsignor Fabei when to vote for Sacchetti, on occa¬ 
sions when it would be of no real service to him, and when to 
refrain. On one of these latter occasions Fabei entrusted his 
message to Inglesant, with whom he was intimate, and it after¬ 
wards appeared that Sacchetti, on that scrutiny, wanted but 
very few votes to have secirred his election. This circumstance 
made a deep impression on De Retz, and he never recognized 
Inglesant afterwards without alluding to it. 

The day after this scrutiny Cardinal Barberini appears to 
have thought that the time was come for his friends to make a 
demonstration in his behalf, and to the astonishment of the 
Conclave thirty-one votes appeared in his favour in the next 
scrutiny. This caused the friends of Cardinal Chigi to pay 
more attention to his conduct, and to the discourses of his Con¬ 
clavists and other partizans, who neglected no opportunity of 
exalting his good qualities. 

The exhaustion of the Conclave became extreme. Cardinal 
Caraffa, who, next to Sacchetti and Chigi, stood the greatest 
chance of election, became ill and died. Twelve other Cardinals 
were balloted for, one after another, without result. Cardinal 
San Clemente was then brought forward, and, but for the hos¬ 
tility of the Jesuits, might have been elected; but the Spanish 
Cardinals who supported him did not dare openly to offend the 
Society, and the election failed. 

The Barberini began to despair of electing their candidate, 
and having received favourable advices from the Court of Spain, 
were willing, either with or without the concurrence of their 
leader, to negotiate with the friends of Cardinal Chigi. Sac¬ 
chetti, finding his own chances hopeless, was not averse to be 
treated with. There remained only the Coimt of France. 

* * * * * 

The MSS. are here defective. 

Be this as it may. Cardinal Sacchetti’s letter had the desired 
effect upon Maz,iri]i, who immediately sent the necessary letters 


344 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap. XXX. 


to the French Cardinals, -withdrawing the veto upon Chigi. 
Nothing remained now but to gain the concurrence of Cardinal 
Barberini. For a long time he refused to accede, but, the 
members of his party who had from the first secretly supported 
Chigi having now openly declared in his favour, Barbeiini at 
last consented to hold a conference. It took place immediately 
after the morning scrutiny, and lasted but a short time. But 
it sat long enough to arrange that the next morning Cardiral 
Chigi should be elected Pope. 

This determination was so suddenly arrived at, and w'as 
concealed so carefully, that nothing certainly was known during 
the rest of the day, outside the number of those who had taken 
part in the conference. There were vague rumours, and many 
discontents, but the time was so short that many who would 
have declared in favour of Sacchetti, had longer time been given 
them, were not able to recover from their surprise. 

Inglesant was of course informed by Cardinal Chigi of what 
had occun'ed immediately after the conference, and about mid¬ 
day he received a message from De Retz warning him to be 
upon his guard. During the afternoon, however, some further 
intelligence of the feeling within the Conclave came to the 
knowledge of that astute intriguer, and he sent Monsignor Fabei 
to Inglesant about five o’clock. 

This man was a favourable specimen of the Italian servant 
of an Ecclesiastical Court. Belonging to a family which had 
been trained for generations in the service of the Curia, he was 
a man to whom the difficulties which perplexed others, and 
the anomalies which appeared to some men to exist between 
Christian polity as it might be conceived to be and Christian 
polity as it was practised in Rome, did not exist;—a man to 
whom the Divine, so far as it was manifested to him at all, 
took the form, without doubt or scruple, of that gorgeous 
though unwieldy, and, as it seemed to some, slightly question¬ 
able, economy of which he was the faithful servant. He was 
honest, yet he appeai'ed—such w^as the peculiarity of his train¬ 
ing and circumstances—to have solved the, on good authority, 
insoluble problem of serving two masters at the same time; for 
two opposing Cardinals, or two factions of Cardinals, alike com¬ 
manded his reverence and service at the same moment. Much 
of this service was no doubt unthinking and unconscious, else 
the memoirs of such a man, composed by himself without 


CHAP. XXX.] A ROMANCE. 345 

reserve, would be perhaps as interesting a book as could be 
written. 

“Something is going on within the CJonclave, Cavaliere,” 
he said, “ of which I am not entirely cognizant. Of course I 
am aware of the communications which have been made from 
outside during this most protracted Conclave. The Princes of 
the Church must have every opportunity given them of arriving 
at a just conclusion in this most important matter, and I have 
never been backward in affording every assistance to their Emi¬ 
nences ; but what we have to deal with to-night is of a very 
different kind. You have nothing to dread from the chiefs of 
the opposite party ; they have accepted the situation, and will 
loyally carry out their engagements. But they have altered 
their policy without consulting or remembering their supporters, 
and among these, especially the inferior ones outside the Con¬ 
clave, the disappointment is severe. They have not time, nor 
are they in a position to make terms with the successful party, 
and their expectations of advancement are annihilated. They 
are, many of them, absolutely unscrupulous, and would hazard 
everything to gain time. They have some means of communi¬ 
cation between the outside world of Rome and their partizans 
within the Conclave, which they have not used till now, and 
with which, therefore, I am unacquainted. They are employ¬ 
ing it now. What the exact effort will be I do not know, but 
should your Padrone, Cardinal Chigi, fall ill before to-morrow’s 
scrutiny, it would delay his election, and delay is all they want. 
There are sufficient malcontents to prevent his election if they 
had only time; two or three days would give them all they 
w^ant. I should advise you not to sleep to-night, but to watch 
with a wakefulness which starts at every sound.” 

The apartment assigned to Cardinal Chigi was subdivided 
into three smaller ones, the largest of which w^as appropriated 
to the bedchamber of the Cardinal, the two others to his 
attendants. These apartments communicated with each other, 
and only one opened upon the centre corridor running down the 
Hall. The Cardinal retired early to his own chamber, and 
most of the other Cardinals did the same. A profound silence 
reigned in the Conclave; if any of the attendants f till stirred 
they were velvet-shod, and the floors and walls, lined with 
velvet, prevented the least sound from being heard. 

Inglesant remained alone in the outermost of the three 


346 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap. XXX. 

apartments, and determined to keep his faculties on the alert. 
For some reason, however, either the fatigue of the long con¬ 
finement, or the deathlike stillness of the night, a profound 
drowsiness overpowered him, and he continually sank into a 
doze. He tried to read, but the page floated before his eyes, 
and it was only by continually rising and pacing the small 
chamber that he kept himself from sinking into a deep sleep. 

A profound peace and repose seemed to reign in a place 
where so many scheming and excited brains, versed in every art 
of policy, were really at work. 

Inglesant had sat down again, and had fallen once more 
into a slight doze, when suddenly, from no apparent cause, his 
drowsiness left him, and he became intensely and almost pain¬ 
fully awake. The silence around him was the same as before, 
but a violent agitation and excitement disturbed his mind, and 
an overpowering apprehension of some approaching existence, 
inimical to himself, aroused his faculties to an acute perception, 
and braced his nerves to a supreme effort. In another moment, 
this apprehension, at first merely mental, became perceptible to 
the sense, and he could hear a sound. It was, as it were, the 
echo of a low faint creeping movement, the very ghost of a sound. 
Whence it came Inglesant could not determine, but it was from 
without the apartment in which he sat. No longer able to 
remain passive, he rose, drew back the velvet curtain that 
screened the entrance from the corridor, opened the door silently, 
and went out. 

The corridor was lighted here and there along its great 
length by oil lamps suspended before every third door of the 
Cardinals’ rooms; but the dark and massive hangings, the 
loftiness of the hall overhead, and the dimness of the lamps 
themselves, caused the light to be misty and uncertain, as in a 
confused and troubled dream. One of these lamps was sus¬ 
pended immediately above the door at which Inglesant had 
appeared, and he stood in its full light, being himself much 
more distinctly seen than he was himself able to see anything. 
He was richly dressed in dark velvet, after the French fashion, 
and in the uncertain light his resemblance to his murdered 
brother was, in this dress, very great. He held a slight and 
jewelled dagger in his hand. 

As he paused under the suspended lamp the sound he 
had before heard developed itself into low stealthy footsteps 


CHAP. XXXI.] 


A ROMANCE. 


347 


approaching down the corridor, apparently on the opposite side, 
and the next moment a figure, more like a phantom thrown on 
the opposite wall than a substantial being, glided into sight. 
It was shrouded in dark and flowing drapery, and kept so close 
to the heavy hangings that it seemed almost the waving of their 
folds stirred by some unknown breeze. Though it passed down 
the opposite side, it kept its attention turned in Inglesant’s 
direction, and almost at the same moment at which he appeared 
through the opening door it saw him and instantly stopped. 
It lost its stealthy motion and assumed an attitude of intense 
and speechless terror, such as Inglesant had never seen depicted 
in a human being, and by this attitude revealed itself more 
completely to his gaze. The hood which shaded its face fell 
partly back, and displayed features pale as death, and lustrous 
eyes dilated with horror, and Inglesant could see that it held 
some nameless weapon in its hand. As it stood, arrested in 
its purpose, breathless and uncertain, it seemed to Inglesant a 
phantom murderer, or rather the phantom of murder itself, as 
though nothing short of the murderous principle sufticed any 
longer to dog his steps. 

This strange figure confronted Inglesant for some seconds, 
during which neither stirred, each with his eyes riveted upon 
the other, each with his weapon in his hand. Then the phantom 
murmured in an inarticulate and broken voice, that faltered upon 
the air as though tremulous with horror, “ It is himself! He 
has taken the dagger from his bleeding wound.” 

Then, as it had come, it glided backwards along the heavy 
drapery, becoming more and more lost in its folds, till, at first 
apparently but the shadow of a shade, it faded more and more 
into the hanging darkness, and vanished out of sight. 

The next morning, at the scrutiny after early mass, Fabius 
Chigi, Cardinal and Secretary of State, was, by more than two- 
thirds of the whole Conclave, elected Pope. 


CHAPTER XXXL 

There is, perhaps, no comparison so apposite, though it be a 
homely one, to the condition of affairs in Italy at this time— 
upon the election of a new Pope— as that of a cliange of trumps 


348 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap. XXXI. 


at a game of cards. All persons and matters reinain the same 
as they were before, yet their values and relationships are all 
changed; the aspect of the entire scene is altered; those who 
before were in little esteem are exalted, and those who were in 
great power and estimation are abased. All the persons with 
whom Inglesant had been connected were more or less affected 
by it, except Cardinal Rinuccini, to whom it made little differ¬ 
ence. To the Cavaliere and to Malvolti it was ruin. The 
former was so deeply involved in debt, in private feuds, and 
entanglements with the authorities, his character was so utterly 
lost with all parties, and his means of usefulness to any so small, 
that it is probable that even the elevation to power of the Bar- 
berini faction would not have been of much use to him. But, 
whatever might have been his prospects had the election resulted 
otherwise, his only chance now of safety from prison and even 
death was in Inglesant’s connection with his sister, and in the 
protection he might hope to experience upon that account; his 
only hope depended upon the force bf Inglesant’s affection. 
The fear of private assassination kept him almost confined to 
his chamber. Malvolti’s circumstances were still more hopeless; 
notorious for every species of vice and crime, and hateful even 
to the very bravoes and dregs of the Italian populace, he had 
now lost all hope of alliance or even assistance from his friend 
the Cavaliere, who discarded him the moment that he was of 
no further use. Maddened by this treatment and by despair, 
no way seemed open to him except that of desperate revenge. 
Towards Inglesant his hatred was peculiarly intense, being 
mixed with a certain kind of superstitious dread. He regarded 
him almost as the shade of his murdered brother, returned from 
the grave to dog his steps. It was his presence which had 
thwarted his last desperate attempt within the Conclave, his 
last hope of earning protection and rewards. He expected 
nothing but punishment and severe retribution at Inglesant’s 
hands. Surrounded as he was by perils and enemies on every 
side, this peril and this dreaded enemy stood most prominently 
in his path; a blow struck here would be not only a measure 
of self-defence, but a sweet gratification of revenge, and a relief 
from an appalling supernatural terror. This terrible semblance 
of his murdered victim once out of his path, he might hope 
that the vision of a bloody hearthstone in England might not 
be so constantly before his eyes. 


A ROMANCE. 


349 


CHAP. XXXI.] 

To Inglesant himself the bright prospects which seemed 
opening before him gave little satisfaction. He was exhausted 
in body by his long detention within the Conclave, and the tone 
of his spirit was impaired by the intrigue and hypocrisy of which 
he had been a witness and a partaker. It is impossible to 
kneel morning after morning before the Sacrament, in a spirit 
of worldliness and chicane, without being soiled and polluted in 
the secret places of the soul. The circumstances of his visit 
to Umbria and to Florence, howbeit in both he had been pre¬ 
served almost by a miracle from actual sin, had left an evil 
mark upon his conscience. He felt little of the sweet calm and 
peace he had enjoyed for a season in the company of Molinos, 
during his first visit to Rome. Something of his old misery 
retiurned upon him, and he felt himself again the sport of the 
fiend, who was working out his destruction by some terrible 
crime, of which he was the agent, and the Italian murderer the 
cause. 

“ This man is at large in Rome,” said Don Agostino to him 
one day ; “I should advise you to have him assassinated. It 
is time the earth was rid of such a villain, and the Roman law 
is useless in such a case. All protection is withdrawn from him, 
and every man, high and low, within the city will rejoice at 
his death.” 

Inglesant shook his head. 

“ I do not value my life, God knows, at a straw’s worth,” 
he said. “ Because he murdered my brother foully and treacher¬ 
ously, he and I shall too surely meet some day; but the time 
is not yet come. Surely if the devil can afford to wait, much 
more can I.” 

He spoke more to himself than to the other, and there is 
reason to suppose that Don Agostino made arrangements to 
have Malvolti assassinated on his own responsibility ; but the 
Italian avoided his bravoes for a time. 

Some short time after the Pope’s election, in the height of 
the Carnival, 1 a masked ball was given in the Palace Doria, 
at which Don Agostino had arranged a set composed entirely 
of his own friends. It was composed in imitation of the old 

^ It is generally stated by historians that the election of Cardinal Chigi 
took place on April 7th, 1655, and as Easter that year fell on April 15th, 
there appears some discrepancy in this part of the narrative. The reader 
must decide between these contending authorities. 



350 JOHN IN(}LESANT; [OHAP. XXXI. 

comedies of the Atellanae, upon which the Punchinello and 
Harlequinade of all nations has been formed, and which being 
domestic dramas performed in masques by the Koman youth 
with an old-fashioned elegance and simplicity, were peculiarly 
fitted for performance at a modern masquerade. A primitive 
and rude form of pantomime, founded on caricature and bur¬ 
lesque, with a few characters boldly drawn, has none of the 
charm of the later comedy, which is a picture of real life with 
its variety of character and incident, and possesses that excel¬ 
lent art of showing men as they are, while representing them 
as they seem to be. But, though it fell short of this higher 
perfection, the broad farce and few characters of the older form 
of comedy are not wanting in much lively and yet serious paint¬ 
ing of human life, which is all the more serious and pathetic 
from its broad and unconscious farce. The jester, the knave, 
the old man, the girl, the lover,—these types that are eternal 
and yet never old,—with the endless complication in which, 
both on the stage and real life, they are perpetually involved, 
are susceptible of infinite application and interest to the imagina¬ 
tion. As the rehearsal progressed, Inglesant was struck and 
interested with these ideas, and as the night came on there 
seemed to him to be in the world nothing but play within play, 
scene within scene. Between the most incidental acts of an 
excited and boisterous crowd and the most solemn realities of 
life and death it seemed to him impossible to distinguish other¬ 
wise than in degree ; all appeared part of that strange interlude 
which, between the Dramas of Eternity, is performed continually 
upon the stage of life. 

The set was a large one, consisting of the ordinary panto¬ 
mime types, supplemented by duplicates, peasants, priests, sbirri 
(always a favourite subject of satire and practical jokes), 
country girls, and others. Don Agostino, whose wit was ready 
and brilliant, took the part of clown or jester, and Inglesant 
that of the stage lover, a role requiring no great effort to 
sustain. The part of Columbine was sustained by a young 
girl, a mistress of Don Agostino, of considerable beauty and wit, 
and as yet unspoiled by the wicked life of Rome. She was 
dressed as a Contadina, or peasant girl, in holiday costume. 
Harlequin was played by a young Count, a boy of weak intellect, 
involved in every species of dissipation, and consigned to ruin 
by designing foes, of whom some were of liis own family. 


CHAP. XXXI.] 


A ROMANCE. 


351 


As the ball progressed the party attracted great notice by 
the clever interludes and acts they performed between the 
dances. • In these the usual tricks and practical jokes were 
introduced sparingly, relieved by a higher style of wit, and by 
allusions to the topics of the day and to the foibles of the 
society of Rome. The parts were all well sustained, and Don 
Agostino exerted himself successfully to* give brilliancy and life 
to the whole party. The young Harlequin-Count, who had at 
first seemed only to excel in lofty capers and somersaults, was 
the first who showed tokens of fatigue. He became gradually 
listless and careless, so that he changed his part, and became 
the butt of the rest, instead of their tormentor. 

A dance in sets had just begun, and Inglesant could not 
help being struck with his disconsolate manner, which showed 
itself plainly, even through his mask and disguise. It seemed 
that others noticed it as well, for as Inglesant met the 
Contadina in one of the combinations of the figure, she said 
in the pause of the dance,— 

“ Do you see the Count, Cavaliere ? He is on the brink of 
ruin, body and soul. His cousin, and one or two more who 
are in the set, are engaged with him in some desperate com¬ 
plication, and are working upon his feeble mind and his terror. 
Cannot you help him at all 1” 

When the dance ceased Inglesant went over to the Count, 
intending to speak to him, but his cousin and others of the set 
were talking earnestly to him, and Inglesant stepped back. He 
saw that the longer his treacherous friends spoke to him the 
more broken down and crushed in spirit did the poor Harlequin- 
Count become; and it was evident to Inglesant that here a 
play was being enacted within the play, and that, as often is 
the case, one of the deep tragedies of life was appearing in the 
fantastic dress of farce. As he stood dreamily watching what 
occurred, Don Agostino called him off to commence another 
comic act, and when at the first pause he turned to look for 
the Count, he could no longer see him. His cousin and the 
others were present, however, and soon after the set was again 
formed for another dance. 

The stifling air of the crowded rooms, and the fatigue of the 
part he had to perform, wrought upon Inglesant’s brain; tho 
confused figures of the dance dazzled his sight, and the music 
sounded strange and grotesque. As the partners crossed each 


352 JOHN INGLESANT; [CHAP. XXXL 

other, and he came again to the Contadina in his turn, she 
grasped his hand in hers, and said, hurriedly,— 

“ Do you see who is standing in the Count’s place 

Inglesant looked, and certainly, in the place of the dance 
which should have been occupied by the Count, was a tall 
figure in the dress of a white friar, over which was carelessly 
thrown a black doinina, which allowed the dark fiery eyes of 
the wearer to be seen. 

“The Count has gone,” whispered the girl, trembling all 
over as she spoke, “ no one knows whither; no one knoAvs who 
this man is who has come in his place. He is gone to drown 
himself in the river; this is the devil who supports his part.” 

In spite of the girl’s visible agitation and his own excite¬ 
ment, Inglesant laughed, and, taking her words as a jest, 
turned again to look at the strange masque, intending to make 
some ludicrous comment to reassure his- friend. To his astonish¬ 
ment the words died upon his lips, and an icy chill seemed to 
strike through his blood and cause his heart to beat violently. 
A sensation of dread overpowered him, the dance-music 
sounded wild and despairing in his ears, and the ever-varying 
throng of figures, waving with a thousand colours, swam before 
his eyes. In the appearance of the stranger, which was simply 
that of a tall man, there was nothing to account for this; and 
except that he kept his piercing eyes steadily fixed upon 
Inglesant, there was nothing in his manner to attract attention. 
Inglesant w^ent through the rest of the dance mechanically, 
and suddenly, as it seemed to him, the music stopped. 

The dance being over, most of Don Agostino’s party, tired 
with their exertions, withdrew to the buffet of an adjoining 
apartment for refreshment. Inglesant had taken off his masque, 
and standing by the buffet, a little apart from the rest, was 
fanning himself with it, and cooling his parched throat with 
iced wine, when he was aware that the strange figure had 
followed him. It was standing before him with a glass in its 
hand, which it seemed to fill from a bottle of peculiar shape, 
which Inglesant recognized as one only used to contain a rare 
Italian wine. 

“ Cavaliere,” the strange masque said in a soft and polite 
voice, “ this wine will do you more good than that which you 
are drinking; it cools and rests the brain. Will you drink with 
me ?” 


A ROMANCE. 


353 


CHAP. XXXI.] 

As he spoke he olFered Inglesant the glass he held, and 
filled another, and at the same instant the Contadina came up 
to Inglesant and hung upon his arm. 

Inglesant, who was unmasked, stood with the glass in his 
hand, waiting for the other to remove his domino before he 
bowed and drank; but the stranger did not do so. 

After a moment’s pause, amid the breathless silence of the 
whole group, who were looking on, the stranger said, speaking 
with a courteous speech and gesture, which if acted were 
perfectly well assumed,— 

“ Pardon me that I do not remove my masque; it is my 
misfortune that I am not able to do so.” 

Impressed by the other’s manner, it struck Inglesant in a 
moment that this must be some great noble, perhaps a Prince 
of the Church, for whom it would be injudicious to appear un¬ 
masked, and bowing courteously, he raised the glass to his lips. 

As he did so the black eyes of the disguised friar were fixed 
steadily upon him, and the Contadina said in his ear, in an 
eager, frightened whisper,— 

“ Do not drink.” 

The tremor of her voice, and of her figure on his ann, 
brought back in a moment the terror and distrust which the 
bearing and manner of the other had dis})elle(l, and raising the 
cup, he let his lip rest for a moment in the liquor, but did not 
drink. Then replacing the glass upon the buffet he said coolly,— 

“ It is a good wine, but my English habit has spoiled my 
taste. I do not like the Italian Volcanic wines.” 

“ I regret it,” said the other, tm'ning away; “ they are a 
quietus for the fever of life.” 

The party breathed more freely as he left the room, and 
the Contadina, taking the glass which Inglesant had put down, 
emptied its contents upon the floor. 

They followed the domino into the ball-room, where they 
saw him speaking to the Count’s cousin, and to two or three 
others of the group, who had remained there or sought refresh¬ 
ment elsewhere. 

As the last dance began, in the early daybreak which made 
the lamps burn faintly, and cast a pale and melancholy light 
over the gay dresses and the moving figures, over the gilding 
and marble, and the dim lovely paintings on the walls, Inglesant 
was conscious of a strange and death-like feeling that benumbed 

2 A 





354 


JOHN INGLESANT: 


[chap. XXXI. 


his frame. He was bitterly cold, and his sight became dim and 
uncertain. The music seemed to grow wilder and more fantastic, 
and the crowded dancers, grotesque and goblin-like to any eyes, 
became unreal as a dream to his. 

Suddenly, as before, the music ceased, and not knowing 
Avhat he did, Inglesant iDecame separated from his friends, and 
was borne by the throng to the doors and down the staircase 
into the courtyard and the street. 

The Piazza and the Corso beyond were crowded with 
carriages, and with servants carrying dim torches, and the 
morning air was rent with confused noise. 

Nearly unconscious, Inglesant allowed himself to be carried 
onward by the crowd of persons leaving the palace on foot— a 
motley throng in every variety of costume, and he was soon 
borne out of the square into the Corso and down the street. 

Suddenly he heard a voice behind, clear and distinct, to his 
ears at least, amid the confused noise,— 

“ There he is—now strike !” 

Turning round quickly, he saw the masque within two yards 
of him, with something in the folds of his gown which shone in 
the light. In another moment he would have been close to 
him, when they were swept apart by a sudden movement of the 
crowd, and Don Agostino’s candage, surrounded by servants, 
passed close by the spot to which Inglesant had drifted. He 
was recognized, and Agostino w^elcomed him eagerly, saying,— 

“ I have been looking for you everywhere.” 

They proceeded along the Corso, Inglesant still like a man 
in a dream, and turned down towards the bridge of St. Angelo. 
At the corner of a street leading to the river, another pause 
occurred. The carriage of a great French noble and Prince of 
the Church—which had followed the Corso farther on—was 
passing when they turned into the street, and according to the 
formal etiquette of the day, even at that hoim and in the 
crowded street, Don Agostino’s coachman stopped his horses 
before the carriage of his master’s superior, and the servants 
opened the door that one of the gentlemen at least might alight. 
At the same moment, there seemed to be some confusion in the 
crowd at the top of the short street leading to the river; and 
Inglesant, still hardly knowing what he did, alighted, wdth the 
double purpose of seeing what was the matter, and of saluting 
his patron. As he did so, one of the servants said to him,— 


A ROMANCE. 


355 


CHAP, xxxr.] 

“ They are bringing up a dead body, sir.” 

It was true. A body had just been drawn out of the river, 
and, placed on nets and benches of a boat, was being carried on 
the shoulders of fishermen up the street. As it passed, Inglesant 
could see the face, which hung drooping towards him over the 
edge of the nets. It was the face of the Harlequin-Count. 

It had scarcely passed, when Inglesant heard—as a man 
hears over and over again repeated in a ghastly dream—the 
same voice that spoke before, saying,— 

“ There he is again. If you let him get back to the coach 
you will lose him. Go round by the horses’ heads.” 

The restlessness of the impatient horses had made a little 
space clear of the crowd, and the same had happened in front 
of the horses of the Cardinal-Duke, so that the street between 
them was comparatively clear. Strangely frightened and dis¬ 
tressed, Inglesant struggled back to Agostino’s carriage, and 
had just reached the door when the masque, passing round the 
horses’ heads, sprang upon him, and struck a violent blow with 
the shining steel. The state of his victim’s brain saved him. 
The moment he reached the door he reeled against it, and the 
weapon glanced off* his person, the hilt striking him a violent 
blow on the chest. He fell backwards into the coach, and 
Agostino caught a second blow in his sleeve. The startled 
servants threw themselves upon the murderer, but he slipped 
through their hands and escaped. 

* * * * 

Two days after the ball, when the morning of Ash Wednesday 
broke with the lovely Italian dawn, a strange and sudden 
transformation had passed over Home. Instead of a people 
wild with pleasure, laughing, screaming, joking like children, 
feasting, dancing, running about, from mere lightness of heart; 
in the place of fairs, theatres, and booths in the open streets, 
instead of the public gardens and walks crowded with parti-, 
coloured masquers, full of sportive pranks, and decked out with 
every vagary and grotesque freak of costume, you saw a city 
quiet and silent as the grave, yet full of human forms; you 
beard nothing but the tolling of bells and the faint echo of 
solemn chants. The houses and churches were hung with 
black; the gay tapestries and silks, the theatres, the play-actors, 
and the gay dresses, had all vanished, and in their place the 
streets were full of cowled and silent penitents. They walked 


356 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap. XXXI. 


with downcast and pallid faces; if you spoke to them they did 
not answer, but gazed upon you with wondering eyes. ]\Ien 
and women alike wore the black gown and hood of penance, 
and from the proudest noble to the poorest peasant, thronged 
into the Churches and received alike the emblem of their 
common fate—the ashes and dust from whence they came, and 
to which they w’ould return. 

Before the masked ball, exhausted in health by the long 
confinement in the Conclave, and tormented in mind by dis¬ 
appointed desire and by accusing conscience, Inglesant had 
been sinking into almost as great misery as that which he had 
endured before he came to Eome. The perils and terror that 
had entered imbidden among the guests during that night of 
revelry had worked a marvellous change upon him, and he 
awoke from a species of trance, which had lasted two days, 
with his spirits cleared and strengthened. He was, in fact, 
like a man whom a violent fever has just left, languid in body, 
but with a mind at rest and in peace, with the wild dreams 
and visions of delirium gone. The earth seems, at least to him, 
calm and peaceful, full of voices of prayer and strains of peni¬ 
tential song. He looks out upon life languidly, it is true, but 
with a friendly, pleased countenance, as upon a well-known 
landscape recalling happy days. So it 'was with Inglesant, 
that, the wild riot of the Carnival being over, the peace of 
Lent began within his soul. The blow that had been struck 
at his life restored him to life, and took away the superstitious 
dread that was gradually consuming his reason. He had met 
his brother’s miu'derer, not alone in some solitary place and 
picked time, planned before 'W'ith diabolic purpose by the enemy 
of mankind, Mt in a crowd, and as it seemed by chance. He 
had himself been passive, and urged by no demoniac prompting 
to some terrible act of vengeance; still more, his enemy had 
failed, miraculously, as it seemed to him. Surely, then, his 
‘fears had been in vain; he was not delivered over to Satan, 
nay, probably the Lord Himself still regarded him with com¬ 
passion, still watched over and defended his life. Some work 
was doubtless reserved for him to do; for him, living always on 
the verge of delirium, whom a little extra pressure upon the 
brain-nerve might at any moment estrange altogether from 
reason, and deprive of intellect and of intercourse with men. 
For such as he, nevertheless, under such protection, what might 


CHAP. XXXI.] 


A ROMANCE. 


357 


not yet be possible ? The dews of the Divine Grace cool the 
I' fevered brain more surely than any cordial, and soften and 
water the parched and thirsty heart. The pleasant Italian 
i March day was soft and balmy as the loveliest day of June in 
England. The scent of jasmin and Daphne flowers fllled the 
air; soft showers fell at intervals over the garden slopes of that 
part of Rome ; the breath of Zephyr swept sweetness into the 
\veary sense. Let him join the hooded throng of penitents; let 
him, dust and ashes, snatclied it may be “ e flamma ” from the 
very flames, yet still by the grace of God in his right mind, 
take his ashes with a grateful heart. 

For the appearance, amid the chaos of his life, of a guiding 
Divine Hand, delightful as it is to any man, must be unspeak¬ 
ably so to him who, to the difliculties, sufliciently great, which 
ordinarily beset a man in his path through life, adds tliis over¬ 
whelming one—the imminent chance at any moment of losing 
consciousness altogether, with the power of thought and choice 
of seeing objects rightly, and of self-control and self-command. 
How eagerly one to whom life is complicated in such sort as 
this must welcome a Divine guidance may easily be seen—one 
who otherwise is wandering among a phantasmagoria of objects, 
among which he must, so far as his wavering consciousness 
allows him, and for the moment that consciousness may remain 
his own, shape his course so as to avoid ruin. 

In the fresh morning air, full of delicious warmth and 
sweetness, and with this angelic messenger leading his soui, 
Inglesant went out. He had no sufficient motive to take him 
to any particular Church; but chance or some nobler power 
directed that he should turn his steps to the right in passing 
into the Via cli S. Giovanni, and following the crowd of 
penitents, should arrive at the portico of the Church of the 
Lateran. 

The space in front of the magnificent fagade was crowded 
with draped forms, and the wail of the rare organ music reached 
the outer perfumed air. The marble pavement of the interior, 
precious beyond calculation, was thronged with the dark crowd, 
and the costly marble of the walls and tombs was streaked and 
veiled by the wreaths of incense which lingered in the building. 
The low chanting and the monotonous accompaniment of the 
organs filled the Church, and high over the altar, brilliant with 
a thousand lights, flashed the countless gems of the wonderful 




358 


JOHN INGLESANT: 


[chap. xxxr. 


tabernayjle, and the Coena of plate of inestimable cost. On 
either side the gilded brass of the four columns of the Emperor 
Titus, brought from Jerusalem itself, reflected back the altar 
lights; and beset with precious stones where the body of the 
Lord once had hung, was evident to all beholders the very 
wood of the Holy Cross. 

As Inglesant entered, the ashes had been sprinkled three 
times with holy water, and the clouds of incense gradually rose 
over the kneeling crowd, as the people began to receive the 
ashes upon their foreheads, thronging up in silence and order. 
At the same time the choir began to sing the Antiphons, accom¬ 
panied by the heavenly music of the matchless organs, and 
penetrating by their distinct articulation the remotest corners 
of the Church. 

“Immutemiu* habitu,” they began, “let us change our 
garments; in ashes and sackcloth let us fast and lament before 
the Lord. Because,” and the pealing anthem rose in ecstatic 
triumph to the emblazoned roof, “plenteous in mercy to forgive 
our sins is this God of oims.” 

“ Ah ! yes,” thought Inglesant, “let us change our garments; 
these dark robes that seem ashes and sackcloth, may they not 
be the chosen garment of the marriage supper of the King ? 
Clothed and in one’s right mind, by the heavenly mercy we 
already walk the celestial pavement, and hear the pealing 
anthems of the angelic choir.” 

“Emendemus in melius,” the anthem went on, “let us 
amend for the better in that in which we have ignorantly 
sinned—ne subito praeoccupati die mortis, quaeramus spatium 
poenitentiae, et in venire non possimus.” 

The mighty voice, as of God Himself, seemed to single out 
and speak to Inglesant alone, “ Lest suddenly overtaken by the 
day of death.” Ah ! who so well as he knew w^hat that meant, 
who so lately as he had stood face to face with the destroyer 1 

He covered his face with his hands. 

As the chanting of the Antiphon continued, he reached the 
steps of the high altar, and in his turn knelt to receive the 
ashes upon his brow. 

In a pause of the anthem the chanting ceased, and the 
organs played a slow movement in the interval. Nothing was 
heard but the monotonous undertone of the priests. 

As Inglesant knelt upon the marble an overpowering sense 


A ROMANCE. 


359 


CHAP. XXXII.] 

of helplessness filled his soul, so worthless and fragile he seemed 
to himself before the Eternal Existence, that the idea of punish¬ 
ment and penitence was lost in the sense of utter nothingness. 

“Ah! Lord God,” he thought, “shattered in mind and 
brain I throw myself on Thee; without Thee I am lost in the 
vortex of the Universe; my intellect is lost except it steadies 
itself upon the idea of Thee. Without Thee it has no existence. 
How canst Thou be angry with that which is not ?” 

He bowed his head in utter prostration of spbit to receive 
the ashes. 

“ Memento, homo,” the priest began—ah 1 surely it must 
be easy to remember that, “ quia pulvis es-” 

Inglesant heard no more. A sudden thrill of earth, like 
the familiar scent of flowers to a dying man, passed through 
him, and he lifted up his eyes. Opposite to him across the 
corner of the altar steps knelt Lauretta, her lustrous eyes full 
of tears fixed upon him with an inexpressible tenderness and 
interest. His eyes met hers for an instant, then he dropped 
his head again before the priest; but the thought and presence 
of heaven was gone from him, and nothing but the roses and 
loves of earth remained. 

He rose from his knees. The throng of penitents surrounded 
him, and he suffered himself to be sw'ept onward, down the long 
nave, till he reached the door through which the crowd was 
pooling out There, however, he stopped. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

The old Duke of Umbria was dying. He lay clothed, as he 
had once said to Inglesant, in the “ Angelica Vestis,” the sacred 
wafer in his mouth. Below in the Palace Chapel, in the great 
Duomo, in Rome itself, masses were being said day by day, and 
the ineffable Host raised to Heaven, in intercessory prayer for 
this man’s soul. If any deserved an unruffled passage over the 
dark river, he did. He had sought long and earnestly to find 
a more excellent way, and had shrunk from no effort nor painful 
mortification if he might at last walk in it when found. He 
had resigned himself and all .hat he possessed in implicit 
obedience to the doctrine and the See of Rome. He had 



3C0 


JOHN INGLESANT: 


[chap. XXXII. 


crowned a blameless and beneficent life by acts of unparalleled 
devotion and piety; nevertheless, an unruffled passage he did 
not have. The future was dark and full of dread, and he 
suftered all the terrors of the grave with a troubled mind. 
Lying thus in dull misery of body, and in mental apprehension 
and unrest, he bethought himself of Inglesant. Having sur¬ 
rendered himself, soul and body, into the hands of those who 
stood about his bed, he knew that it was useless to let his 
mind wander after any of those unauthorized teachers from 
whom in past days he had sought instruction; but in Inglesant 
he had, for the first time, met a man who, walking to all 
appearance in the straitest paths of the Catholic Church, seemed 
to possess a freedom of spirit greater than the Sectaries them¬ 
selves could boast. Even when suffering the rebukes of an 
accusing conscience, and the bewilderment of a disordered brain, 
there was in Inglesant an unfettered possession of the things of 
this life, and even of the life to come, which had astonished 
the old man, who, unaccused by his own conscience, was yet so 
confined and hampered in this world, and in such continual 
dread of that other which was shortly to be revealed to him. 

He expressed to his director a wish that Inglesant might be 
sent for. It was impossible to deny him this request, even had 
it been thought desirable. Inglesant was a trusted confidant 
of the dominant Society of Rome, a favourite of the new Pope, 
and had, besides, been influential, as was believed, in obtaining 
that crowning triumph—the cession of the Duchy to the Papal 
See. A messenger was therefore despatched to Rome request¬ 
ing his immediate presence. The summons found him with 
Lauretta and her father, engaged in preparations for his speedy 
marriage. 

This connection was regarded with great favour by Don 
Agostino and most of his friends; but was looked upon, as far 
as they condescended to notice it at all, with suspicion by the 
heads of the Jesuit Society. 

They were beginning to dread the influence of Molinos, and 
Inglesant had already incurred some suspicion by his intimacy 
with the Spaniard. The Pope was supposed to be not altogether 
opposed to the new doctrine, and the Jesuits were unwilling to 
lose an obedient servant, who might be useful to them. There 
was, however, no sufflcient reason in this why he should be 
forbidden to visit the old Duke, who Wiis certainly dying, and 


■CHAP. XXXII.] 


A ROMANCE. 


361 


therefore beyond the reach of dangerous influence ; and Ingle- 
sant, remembering the interest he had felt in the Duke, and 
the favours which he had lavished upon him, hastened to set 
out. 

When he arrived in Umbria he found the Duke had rallied 
a little, and he received him with the warmest expressions of 
delight. He was never content save when he was in the room, 
and his very presence seemed to restore strength and life to the 
exhausted old man. Those who watched about his bed in the 
interests of Rome, if they had felt any apprehensions of the 
result of Inglesant’s visit, were speedily reassured, for the Duke 
did not seem desirous of conversing upon religious matters with 
him, and, indeed, rather avoided them. He seemed to cling to 
Inglesant as to the only remaining link to that world which he 
was so soon to leave, and to take a strange pleasui-e in furnish¬ 
ing him with those appliances of earthly enjoyment which had 
until now long ceased to be of interest to himself. Among 
other gifts he insisted on his accepting a suit of superb armour 
which had been made expressly for his idolized son. In this 
suit, in which he caused Inglesant to be arrayed, he declared 
that he well represented the patron saint of his nation, St. 
George of England, and pleased himself with the reflection that 
the fief with which he had endowed Inglesant bore the name 
of the same saint. 

“You are il Cavaliere di San Georgio,” he said to his 
favourite, as he stood by his couch, sheathed in the superb but 
useless and fantastic armour of the seventeentli century, with 
cuirass, greaves, and cuisses of polished and jewelled metal, 
worn over the ordinary dress, and combined with the lace and 
velvet which ornamented the whole. It is true that the steel 
plates were covered with silver and gold chasing of arabesques 
not of the most Christian type, and the perfect sword-blade was 
engraved with hieroglyphics not of the most saintly kind; 
nevertheless Inglesant, as he stood, did certainly resemble some¬ 
what closely a splendid renaissance St. George. 

“You are il Cavaliere di San Georgio,” said the Duke, 
“ and you must wear that armour when you go to meet your 
bride. I have arranged a train worthy of so illustrious a bride¬ 
groom.” 

Inglesant’s marriage had taken a great hold in the imagina¬ 
tion of the dying man, and his mind, to the surprise of those 




362 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap, xxxit. 


who had known him longest, seemed to dwell entirely upon 
miiitials and festivals. The strain and terror which his spirit 
had suffered for so long had probably done their work, and, 
like as on a harjjsichord with a snapped string, the set purpose 
and composure was lost, and nothing but fragments of fantasias 
could be played. That magic influence of the wonderful ducal 
palace which Inglesant had been conscious of at his first visit, 
and of which the Duke had seemed hitherto altogether regard¬ 
less, at the last moments of his life appeared to assert its power 
and force; and what to others seemed mere dotage appeared to 
Inglesant like a wintry gleam of mysterious light that might be 
the earnest of a happier time,—a return from the dark regions 
of superstitious fear to the simple delights of common human 
life. The sway of this strange house was as powerful over 
Inglesant himself as it had been before ; but he now stood upon 
higher ground than he had done formerly. The events which 
had occurred in the meantime had not been entirely without 
effect. His triumph over the temptation of the flesh in the 
foi-est pavilion had secured to him a higher place in the spiritual 
walk, and the escape from the assassin’s dagger had sobered 
liis spirit and indescribably touched his heart. The “ Kingt' 
Courts,” of which this house was but a type,— the Italian 
world in wliich he had lived so long,—had, therefore, now less 
power than ever tb crush Inglesant’s religious instinct; but it 
gave it a certain colour, a sort of renaissance Christianity, which 
bore a likeness to the character of the art-world in which it had 
grown up,—a Christianity of florid ornament and of somewhat 
fantastic issues. 

As the Duke gradually became weaker, and seemed every 
day to be on the point of death, he became the more anxious 
that Inglesaut’s marriage should be completed, and at last 
insisted upon his delaying his return to Rome no longer. Ingle¬ 
sant, who expected almost hour by hour the Duke’s decease, 
M'ould have been content to wait ; but the dying man would 
take no denial. He pleased himself with giving orders for 
Iiiglesant’s train, and ordered his favourite page, an Austrian 
boy, to accompany him, and to return immediately when the 
marriage was celebrated, that he might receive the fullest 
description of the particulars of the event. 

It was long before sunrise that Inglesant set out, accom¬ 
panied by his train, hoping to cross the mountains before the 


A ROMANCE. 


CHAP. XXXII.] 


363 


I heat began. His company consisted of several men-at-arms, 

! with their grooms and horse boys, and the Austrian page. 

They ascended the mountains in the earlier part of the night, 

I and towards dawn they reached a flat plain. The night had 
been too dark to allow them to see the steep and narrow defiles, 

^ fidl of oaks and beech ; and as they passed over the dreary plain 
i in the white mist, their figures seemed vast and indistinct in 
the dim light, but now, as the streaks of the dawn grew brighter 
in the east behind them, they could see the fir trees clothing the 
1 distant slopes, and here and there one of the higher summits 
still covered with white snow. The scene was cold and dead 
and dreary as the grave. A heavy mist hung over the mountain 
plain, and an icy lake lay black and cold beneath the morning 
sky. As they reached the crest of the hill the mist rose, stirred 
by a little breeze at sunrise, and the gorges of the descent lay 
I clear before them. The sun arose behind them, gilding the 
I mountain tops, and tracing streaks and shades of colour on the 
I rising mist sparkling with glittering dew-droi)s ; while dark and 
I solemn beneath them lay the pine-clothed ravines and sloping 
j valleys, with here and there a rocky peak; and farther down 
I still the woods and hills gave place at last to the plain of the 
I Tiber, at present dark and indistinguishable in the night. 

I As the sun arose behind them one by one the pine ravines 
became lighted, and the snowy summits, soft and pink with 
radiant light, stood out against the sky, which became every 
instant of a deeper blue. The sunlight, stealing down the de- 
; files and calling forth into distinct shape and vision tree and 
( rock and flashing stream, spread itself over the oak woods in 
j the valleys, and shone at last upon the plain, embossed and 
I radiant with wood and green meadow, and marble towers and 
! glistering water—the waters of the Tiber rimning onwards 
towards Rome. Mysterious forms and waves of light, the 
creatures of the morning and of the mist, floated before the 
sight, and from the dark fir trees murmurs and mutterings of 
ethereal life fell upon the ear. Sudden and passionate flushes 
of colour tinted the pine woods and were gone, and beneath the 
branches and across the paths fairy lights played for a moment 
and passed away. 

The party halted more than once, but it was necessary to 
make the long descent before the heat begau, and they com¬ 
menced carefully to pick their way down the stony mountain 




364 


JOHN INGLESANT ; [CHAP. XXXII. 

road, which wound down the ravines in wild unequal paths. 
The track, now precipitous, now almost level, took them round 
corners and masses of rock sometimes hanging above their heads, 
revealing continually new reaches of valley and new defiles 
clothed with fir and oak. Mountain flowers and trailing ivy 
and creeping plants hung in festoons on every side, lizards ran 
across the path, birds fluttered above them or darted into the 
dark recesses where the mountain brooks were heard; every¬ 
thing sang the morning psalm of life, with which, from field 
and mountain solitudes, the free children of natirre salute the 
day. 

Tlie Austrian boy felt the beauty of the scene, and broke 
out into singing. 

“ When the northern gods,” he said to Inglesant, “ rode on 
their chevisance they went down into the deep valleys singing 
magic songs. Let us into this dark valley, singing magic songs, 
also go down; who knows what strange and hidden deity, since 
the old pagan times lost and forgotten, we may find among the 
dark fir dingles and the lam'd shades'?” 

And he began to sing some love ditty. 

Inglesant did not hear him. The beauty of the scene, 
etliereal and unreal in its loveliness, following upon the long 
dark mountain ride, his sleepless nights and strange familiarity 
with approaching death by the couch of the old Duke, confused 
his senses, and a presentiment of impending fate filled his mind. 
The recollection of his brother rose again in his remembrance, 
distinct and present as in life; and more than once he fimeied 
that he heard his voice, as the cry of some mountain beast, or sound 
of moaning trees, came up the pass. No other foreshadowing 
than this very imperfect one warned him of the approaching 
crisis of his life. 

The sun was fully up, and the light already brilliant and 
intense, wdien they approached a projecting point where the 
slope of w'ood ended in a tower of rock jutting upon the road. 
The path by wdiich they approached it was narrow and ragged, 
but beyond the rock the ground spread itself out, and the path 
was carried inward towards the right, having the sloping hillside 
on the one hand, covered with scattered oaks, wdiile, on the 
other, a slip of ground separated it from the ravine. At the 
turning of the road, w^here the opening valley lay before them 
as they reached the corner, face to face w'ith Inglesant as he 


A ROMANCE. 


365 


CHAP. XXXII.] 

checked his liorse, was the Italian, the inquisitive stranger of 
the theatre at Florence, the intruder into the Conclave, the 
masque of the Carnival ball, the assassin of the Corso—that 
Malvolti who had treacherously murdered his brother and 
sought his own life. Alone and weary, his clothes worn and 
threadbare, he came toiling up the pass. Inglesant reined in 
his liorse suddenly, a strange and fierce light in his eyes and 
face. The Italian started back like some wild creatine of the 
forest brought suddenly to bay, a terrified cry broke from him, 
and he looked wildly round as if intending flight. The nature 
of the ground caught him as in a trap; on the one hand the 
sloping hillside steep and open, on the other tangled rugged 
ground, slightly rising between the road and the precipice, cut 
ofi* all hope of sudden flight. He looked Avildly roimd for a 
moment, then, when the horsemen came round the rocky wall 
and halted behind their leader, his eyes came back to Inglesant’s 
face, and he marked the smile upon his lips and in his eyes, and 
saw his hand steal downwards to the hunting piece he carried 
at the saddle; then with a terrible cry, he threw himself on his 
knees before the horse’s head, and begged for pity,—pity and 
life. 

Inglesant took his hand from his weapon, and turning 
slightly to the page and to the others behind him, he said,— 

“This man, messeri, is a murderer and a villain, steeped 
in every crime; a cruel secret midnight cut-throat and assassin; 
a lurker in secret corners to murder the innocent. He took 
my brother, a noble gentleman whom I was proud to follow, 
treacherously at an advantage, and slew him. I see him now 
before me lying in his blood. He tried to take my life,—I, 
who scarcely even knew him,—in the streets of Rome. Now 
he begs for mercy, what say you, gentlemen? what is his duel” 

“Shoot the dog through the head. Hang him on the 
nearest tree. Carry him into Rome and torture him to death.” 

The Italian still continued on his knees, his hands clasped 
before him, his face working with terror and agony that could 
not be disguised. 

“Mercy, monsignore,” he cried. “Mercy. I cannot, 1 
dare not, I am not fit to die. For the blessed Host, mon¬ 
signore, have mercy—for the love of Jesu—for the sake of Jesu.” 

As he said these lust words Inglesant’s attitude altered, and 
the cruel light faded out of his eyes. His liand ceased to finger 




366 JOHN INGLESANT ; [chap, xxxil. 

the carabine at his saddle, and he sat still upon his horse, look¬ 
ing down upon the abject wretch before him, while a man might 
count fifty. The Italian saw, or thought he saw, that his judge 
was inclining to mercy, and he renewed his appeals for pity. 

“ For the love of the crucifix, monsignore; for the blessed 
Virgin’s sake.” 

But Inglesant did hot seem to hear him. He turned to the 
horsemen behind him, and said,— 

“Take him up, one of you, on the crupper. Search him 
first for arms. Another keep his eye on him, and if he moves 
or attempts to escape, shoot him dead. You had better come 
quietly;” he continued, “it is your only chance for life.” 

Two of the men-at-arms dismounted and searched the 
prisoner, but found no arms upon him. He seemed indeed to 
be in the greatest distress from hunger and want, and his 
clothes were ragged and thin. He was mounted behind one 
of the soldiers and closely watched, but he made no attempt to 
escape, and indeed appeared to have no strength or energy for 
such an effort. 

They went on down the pass for about an Italian league. 
The country became more thickly wooded, and here and there 
on the hillsides patches of corn appeared, and once or twice in 
a sheltered spot a few vines. At length, on the broad shoulder 
of the hill round which the path wound, they saw before them 
a few cottages, and above them, on the hillside, in a position 
that commanded the distant pass till it opened on the plain, 
was a Chapel, the bell of which had just ceased ringing for 
mass. 

Inglesant turned his horse’s head up the narrow stony path, 
and when the gate was reached, he dismounted and entered the 
Chapel, followed by his train. The Capella had apparently 
been built of the remains of some temple or old Roman house, 
for many of the stones of the front were carved in bold relief. 
It was a small narrow building, and possessed no furniture save 
the altar and a rude pulpit built of stones; but behind the altar, 
painted on the plaster of the wall, was the rood or crucifix, the 
size of life. Who the artist had been cannot now be told; it 
might have been the pupil of some great master, who had 
caught something of the master’s skill, or, perhaps, in the old 
time, some artist had come up the pass from Borgo san Sepolcro, 
and had painted it for the love of his art and of the Blessed 


A ROMANCK 


367 


CHAP. XXXII.] 

Virgin; but, whoever had done it, it was well done, and it gave 
a sanctity to the little Chapel, and possessed an infiiience of 
which the villagers were not unconscious, and of which they 
were even proud. 

The mass had commenced some short time as the train 
entered, and such few women and peasants as were present 
turned in surprise. 

Inglesant knelt upon the steps before the altar, and the 
men-at-arms upon the floor of the Chapel, the two who guarded 
the prisoner keeping close behind their leader. 

I The priest, who was an old and simple-looking countryman, 

I continued his ofiice without stopping; but when he had received 
i the sacred elements himself, he turned, and, influenced probably 
' by his appearance and by his position at the altar, he offered 

i Inglesant the Sacrament. He took it, and the priest, turning 

ii again to the altar, finished the mass. 

Then Inglesant rose, and when the priest turned again he 
i was standing before the altar with his drawn sword held length- 
I wise across his hands. 

“My Father,” he said, “ I am the Cavaliere di San Georgia, 
and as I came across the mountains this morning on my way 
to Rome, I met my mortal foe, the murderer of my brother, a 
wretch whose life is forfeit by every law, either of earth or 
t heaven, a guilty monster steeped in every crime. Him, as 
1 soon as I had met him,—sent by this lonely and untrodden 
way as it seems to me by the Lord’s hand,—I thought to crush 
at once, as I would a venomous beast, though he is worse than 
any beast. But, my Father, he has ap}5ealed from me to the 
adorable Name of Jesus, and I cannot touch him. But he will 
not escape. I give him over to the Lord. I give up my sword 
into the Lord’s hands, that He may work my vengeance upon 
him as it seems to Him good. Henceforth he is safe from 
earthly retribution, but the Divine Powers are just. Take this 
sword, reverend Father, and let it lie upon the altar beneath 
the Christ Himself; and I will make an offering for daily 
masses for my brother’s soul.” 

The priest took the sword, and kneeling before the altar, 
placed it thereon like a man acting in a dream. 

He was one of those child-like jieasant-priests to whom the 
gieat world was unknown, and to whom his mountain solitudes 
were peopled as much by the saints and angels of his breviary 





368 


JOHN inglesant; 


[chap. XXXII. 


as by the peasants who shared with him the solitudes and the 
legends that gave to these mountain fastnesses a mysterious 
awe. To such a man as this it seemed nothing strange that 
the blessed St. George himself, in jewelled armour, shoidd 
stand before the altar in the mystic morning light, his shining 
sword in his hand. 

He turned again to Inglesant, who had knelt down once 
more. 

“It is well done, monsignore,” he said, “as all that thou 
doest doubtless is most well. The sword shall remain here as 
thou sayest, and the Lord doubtless will work His blessed will. 
But I entreat, monsignore, thy intercession for me, a poor 
sinful man; and when thou returnest to thy place, and seest 
again the Lord Jesus, that thou rvilt remind Him of His im- 
worthy priest. Amen.” 

Inglesant scarcely heard wliat he said, and certainly did 
not understand it. His sense was confused by what had 
happened, and by the sudden overmastering impulse upon 
which he had acted. He moved as in a dream; nothing seemed 
to come strange to him, nothing startled him, and he took 
slight heed of what passed. He placed his embroidered piuse, 
heavy with gold, in the priest’s hand, and in his excitement 
totally forgot to name his brother, for wdiose repose masses 
were to be said. 

He signed to his men to release the prisoner, and, his 
trumpets sounding to horse before the Chapel gate, he mounted 
and rode on down the pass. 

But his visit was not forgotten, and long afterwards, perhaps 
even to the present day, popidar tradition took the story up, 
and related that once, when the priest of the mountain Chapel 
was a very holy man, the blessed St. George himself, in shining 
armoiu*, came across the mountains one morning very early, and 
himself partook of the Saci’ament and all his train; and ap¬ 
pealed triumphantly to the magic sword—set with gold and 
precious stones—that lay upon the altar fi-om that morning, 
by virtue of which no harm can befall the village, no storm 
strike it, and, above all, no pillage of armed men or any violence 
can occur. 

The Austrian boy retimned to Umbria with his story of the 
marriage; but the old Duke never heard it. No sooner had 
Inglesant left him than his depression and despair returned; he 


A ROIVIANCE. 


369 


CHAP. XXXIII.] 

loathed the sight of the day, and of the costly palace in which 
he lived; the ^gay arts and the devised fancies by which men 
1 have sought to lure happiness became intolerable to him; and, 
ill as he was, he caused himself to be removed to the Castel 
Durante, amid the lonely mountain ravines, to abide his end. 
As Inglesaut bowed beneath -the care-cloth—the fine linen 
cloth laid over the newly-married in the Church,—kneeling till 
mass was ended, with his heart full of love and brightness and 
peace, the last of the house of Revere—“ worn out,” says the 
chronicler, with a burst of unusual candour, “ by priestly 
torments”—breathed his Inst, and went to another world, 
where, it may be hoped, sacrifice and devotion are better 
rewarded than they are here, and superstitious terrors are 
unknown. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

The Castello di San Georgio, or, as it might more properly 
have been called, the “ Casa ” or Villa di San Georgio, was 
built upon the summit of a small conical hill, amid the sloping 
i bases of the Apennines, at a part of their long range where the 
summits were low and green. In that delightful region, the 
[ cultivation and richness of the plain is united to the wildness 
t and beauty of the hills. The heat is tempered in the shady 
valleys and under the thick woods. A delicious moisture and 
soft haze hangs about these dewy, grassy places, which the sun 
has power to warm and gladden, but not to parch. Flowers 
of every hue cover the ground beneath the oaks and elms. 
Nightingales sing in the thickets of wild rose and clematis, 
and the groves of laurel and of the long-leaved olives are 
crowded with small creatures in the full enjoyment of life and 
w^armth. Little brooks and rippling streams, half hidden by 
the tangled thickets, and turned from their courses by the 
mossy rocks, flow down from the hill ravines, as joyful and 
clear as in that old time when each was the care of some pro¬ 
tecting nymph or rural god. In the waters of the placid lake 
are reflected the shadows of the hills, and the tremulous 

1 shimmer of waving woods. 

In this favoured region, the Villa di San Georgio stood upon 
its leafy hill-top, set in the background of the mountains. The 









370 


JOHN INGLESANT 


[chap. xxxriL 


steep slope was terraced here and there in patches of ground 
planted with fruit-trees, and at the foot, towards the south, a 
large lake slept beneath the blue sky, its shores lined with 
brushwood, interspersed here and there with grassy slopes, 
where the orchis and hyacinth and narcissus sprang up from 
the green rich turf. 

Through this pastoral land, at all seasons of the year, 
wandering shepherds with their flocks, peasants with their 
cattle and dogs, ladies and cavaliers from the neighbouring 
villas, woodmen, vine-dressers, fishermen from the lake, tra¬ 
versed the leafy stage, and diversified the scene ; but when the 
grape was fully ripe, and the long year was crowned at last 
witli the fatness of the vintage, a joyous age of rural wealth 
and jollity seemed for a time to fill the mellow, golden-thited 
land. Then, indeed, wandering amid the woods and rocks 
interspersed with vineyards and patches of yellow wheat, as 
you met the loaded wain, or came upon the wine-press, trodden 
by laughing girls and boys, you seemed to understand tlie 
stories of the rural wanderings of the gods, for you met with 
many a scene to which it might well be fancied that they 
might still be allured, as to that garden at the foot of Mount 
Bermion where the roses grew. The gracious gods of plenty 
still filled the luscious vats ; rustling Zephyr still whispered 
love among the flowers, still came laden with the ripening 
odours of the fruit. The little cherub Loves peeped out from 
behind oak stems and ruined plinth and sculptured frieze, half 
hidden among roots and leaves. 

The Gastello was a modern building, although there were 
ruins in one of the courtyards of a very antique date. It con¬ 
sisted of three or four lofty blocks of buildings, at right angles 
to each other, covered with low, red-tiled roofs. The principal 
windows were in the upper stories, and gave light to large and 
handsome rooms, from which on all sides the most enchanting 
landscapes satisfied the eye. 

The weeks that succeeded Inglesant’s marriage grew into 
months, and the months into years, in this delightful scene. 
The old Count spent some months in peaceful satisfaction with 
his daughter and her husband, delighted with the company of 
his one grandchild, a little boy. In the spacious dining-saloon, 
with its cool polished floor, it was a pretty sight to see the old, 
courteous nobleman tempting the child with the ripest fruit. 


CHAP. XXXIII.] 


A ROMANCK 


371 

Ihe shaded light fell upon the plate and yellow ware on the 
table, and upon the old cabinets of Italian inarqueterie against 
the walls; whilst by the carved mantelpiece sat the pleased 
parents, of whom it is recorded that in Koine they passed for 
the handsomest pair in Italy. In this way, the days of some 
three sunny summers passed away, while the winters were 
spent in the Papal city. 

But this Arcadian life was not lasting. The old Count was 
not long content if absent from city life, and the time at the 
Castello hung somewhat heavily upon the spirits of both Ingle- 
sant and his wife. They were neither of them fitted by pre¬ 
vious habits and education for a retired country life; but the 
circumstance which outwardly appeared to weigh upon Lau¬ 
retta’s mind was uncertainty concerning her brother’s fate. 
From the time of the marriage the Cavaliere had disappeared, 
and from that day no word of tidings had been received respect¬ 
ing him. It was known that his circumstances were desperate, 
and the danger he lay under from secret enemies imminent. 
The account which her husband had given her of the condition 
in which he had seen Malvolti dwelt in her imagination, and 
she brooded over the idea of her brother in a similar state of 
destitution and misery. It seemed probable that, had he been 
assassinated, tidings of the event would have reached his family ; 
and if alive, it was strange that he had made no application for 
assistance to those who were so well able and so willing to 
render it. This suspense and mystery were more insupportable 
than certainty of evil would have been. 

The characters of Inglesant and his wife were of such a 
nature as most effectively to produce and aggravate this sleepless 
uneasiness. Upon Lauretta’s lenient and gracious, if somewhat 
pleasure-loving disposition, the impression of the unkindness 
she had experienced from her brother faded without leaving a 
trace, and she thought only of some pleasant, long-past incidents, 
when she had been a pretty, engaging child ; whilst the life of 
romance and excitement, combined with a certain spiritual 
Quixotism, which Inglesant had so long followed, had rendered 
any otlier uncongenial to him, and it required little persuasion 
to induce him to re-enter upon it. 

But there were other causes at work which led to tlie same 
result. For many weeks a sultry wind had, without variation, 
passed over the south of Italy, laden with putrid exhalations 


372 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap. XXXIII. 


from the earth, and by its sullen steadiness causing stagnation 
in the air. It would be difficult to describe the terrible effect 
upon the mind and system of the long continuance of such a 
state of the atmosphere. A restless fear and depression of 
spirits prepared the body for the seeds of disease, and the con¬ 
tagion, which was not perhaps generated in the atmosphere, 
was carried by it with fearful rapidity. The plague struck 
down its victims at once in city and in country, and spared no 
rank nor condition of life. Then all bond of fellowship and of 
society was loosened, strange crimes and suspicions,—strange 
even to that land of crime and treachery,—influenced the lives 
and thoughts of all men. Innocent persons were hunted to 
death, as poisoners.and spreaders of infection; the terrors of 
the grave broke through the forms of artificial life, and the 
depravity of the heart was exposed in ghastly nakedness, as the 
bodies of the dead lay unburied by the waysides. 

The Gastello di San Georgio, standing on the summit of a 
breezy hill, in a thinly-peopled district, was as safe a refuge as 
could perhaps be found, and, if uneasiness of mind could have 
been banished, might have been a hap[>y one. Three hundred 
years before, in the child-like unconsciousness of spiritual con¬ 
flict which the unquestioned rule of Rome for so long produced, 
it had been possible, in the days of Boccacio, for cultivated and 
refined society to shut itself up in some earthly paradise, and, 
surrounded by horrors and by death, to spend its days in light 
wit and anecdote, undisturbed in mind, and kept in bodily 
health by cheei ful enjoyment; but the time for such possi¬ 
bilities as these had long gone by. A mental trouble and 
uneasiness, which pervaded the whole of human life at the 
most quiet times, gave place, at such periods of dread and fear, 
to an intolerable restlessness, which altogether precluded the 
placid enjoyment of the present, however guarded and apparently 
secure. 

The apprehension which most weighed upon Lauretta’s 
mind, was that her brother, flying from some city where the 
pestilence raged, might be refused succour and assistance, and 
might even be murdered, in the village to which he might flee. 
Such incidents were of daily occurrence, nor can it be wondered 
at that human precaution and terror became cruel and merciless, 
when it is an authenticated fiict that the very birds themselves 
forsook the country places, and disnppcared fioin their native 


CHAP. XXXIII.] 


A ROMANCE. 


373 


groves, at the approach of tlie plague. Nor were inanimate 
things, even, indifferent to the scourge; patches and blotches of 
infection broke out upon tlie walls and liouses, and when scraped 
off" would reappear until the house itself was burnt down. 

It was in the midst of this ghastly existence, this life in 
death, that a wandering mendicant, driven from Rome by the 
pestilence and craving alms at the Gastello, asserted that he 
knew the Cavaliere di Guardino, and that he was ill in Rome, 
doubtless by this time dead. The man probably lied, or if it 
were true that he had known the Cavaliere, as he had passed 
him on the steps of the Trinita, the latter part of his story was 
certainly imaginary. It caused Lauretta, however, so much 
distress, that her husband, to comfort her, proposed to ride to 
Rome, and endeavour to discover the truth. The plague was 
not so virulent in Rome as it was in the south of Italy, and 
especially in Naples, and to a man using proper precautions the 
danger might not be veiy great. Lauretta was distracted. 
The restless anxiety, which gave her no peace until her brother’s 
fate was known, urged her to let her husband go. How, then, 
should she be more at ease when, in addition to one vision of 
dread and apprehension, she would be haunted by another'? 
The new anxiety seemed a relief from the old; anyhow the old 
was intolerable,—any change offered hope. 

Upon his arrival at Rome Inglesant went hither and thither, 
from place to place, as one false rei)ort and another led him. 
Every beggar in the city seemed to have known the Cavaliere. 
The contagion was sufficiently virulent to stop all amusements, 
and to drive every one from the city who was not compelled 
to remain. The streets were almost deserted, and those who 
passed along them walked apart, avoiding each other, and 
seldom spoke. The most frequented places were the Churches, 
and even there the services were short and hurried, and divested 
of everything that could attract the eye. In the unusual silence 
the incessant tolling of the bells was more marked than ever. 
White processions carrying the Host glided over the hushed 
pavements. 

Once Inglesant thought he had discovered the man of whom 
he was in search. The Cavaliere, the stoiy now ran, had 
arrived in Rome a few days ago from Naples, where the plague 
had the mastery, so that the living could not bury the dead. 
He had come, flying towards the healthy north before the 


374 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap. XXXIII. 


pestilence, which had overtaken him as he entered the Giovanni 
gate, and had taken refuge in a pest-house, which had been 
established in the courtyard of a little church, “ S. Salvatoris 
in Laterano ad scalas sanctas.” Thither Inglesant repaired, in 
the full glare of an afternoon in the late summer. In a sort of 
cloister, round a little courtyard, the beds were laid out side 
by side, on which lay the dying and the dead. Between the 
worn stones of the courtyard, sprinkled with water, bright 
flowers were springing up. The monks were flitting about; 
two or three of these also were dead already. Inglesant inquired 
for the stranger who had arrived from Naples. He was dead, 
the monks told him, but not yet taken away for burial; he lay 
there still upon his couch. They took Inglesant to a corner of 
the courtyard, where, looking down upon the dead body, he 
saw at once it was not that of the Cavaliere. It was the 
body of a man in the very prime of life, of a singularly noble 
and lofty look. He lay with his hands clasped over a little bit 
of crossed wood the monks had made, his eyes closed, something 
like a smile upon his lips. 

“ The Cavaliere will not look like that,” thought Inglesant 
to himself. 

Who was he 1 In some part of Italy, doubtless, there were 
at this moment those who waited for him, and wondered, just 
as he and Lauretta were doing. Perhaps in some distant 
lazaretto some one might be standing over the body of the 
Cavaliere, at just such a loss for a name and clue. It did 
not seem strange to Inglesant; he had wandered through these 
cross ways and tangled paths of life from a child. 

He went out into the hot sunshine and down the long 
straight street, by the great church of the Santa Maria, into 
the Via Felix, scarcely knowing where he went. Across the 
whole breadth of Borne the few persons he met regarded him 
with suspicion, and crossed over to the other side. He hiniself 
carried a pomander of silver in the shape of an apple, stuffed 
with spices, which sent out a curious faint perfume through 
small holes. He wandered down the steps of the Trinita, where 
even the beggars were few and quiet, and seeking unconsciously 
the cooler air of the river, passed the desolate Corso, and came 
down to the Ripetta, to the steps. 

The sun was sinking now, and the western sky was all 
ablcize with a strange light. All through the streets the image 


CHAP. XXXIII.] 


A ROMANCE. 


375 


of the dead man had haunted Inglesant, and the silent city 
seemed full of such pale and mystic forms. The great dome of 
St. Peter’s stood out dark and clear against .the yellow light, 
which shone through the casements below the dome till the 
whole seemed faiut and ethereal as the air itself. In the fore¬ 
ground, across the river, were low meadows, and the bare 
branches of trees the leaves of which had already withered and 
fallen. In the distance the pollard firs upon the ramparts 
stood out distinctly in fantastic forms; to the left the spires 
and domes of the city shone in the light; in front flowed the 
dark river, still and slow. The large steps by the water’s edge, 
usually so crowded and heaped with market produce, were bare 
and deserted; a wild superstitious terror took possession of 
Inglesant’s mind. 

In this solitude and loneliness, amid the busiest haunts of 
life, with the image of death on every hand, he felt as though 
the unseen world might at any moment manifest itself; the 
lurid sky seemed ready to part asunder, and amid the silent 
courts and pavements the dead would scarcely seem strangers 
were they to appear. He stood waiting, as though expecting a 
message from beyond the grave. 

And indeed it seemed to come. As he stood upon the steps 
a gray form came along the pathway on the farther side beneath 
the leafless trees and down the sloping bank. It entered the 
small boat that lay moored beneath the alders, and guided itself 
across the stream. It stood erect and motionless, propelling 
the skiff doubtless by an oar at the stern, but from the place 
where Inglesant stood the boat seemed to move of its own 
accord, like the magic bark in some romance of chivalry. In 
its left hand the figure held something which shone in the 
light; the yellow glamour of the sunset, dazzling to Inglesant’s 
eyes, fluttered upon its vestment of whitish gray, and clothed 
in transparent radiance this shadowy revenant from the tomb. 
It made no stay at the landing-place, but, as though on an 
errand of life and death, it came straight up the wide curved 
steps, holding forward in its left hand a crucifix of brass. It 
passed within a step of Inglesant, who was standing, wonder- 
struck, at the summit of the steps, his silver pomander in his 
hand. As it passed him he could see the face, pale and stead¬ 
fast, with a bright lustre in the eyes, and looking full upon him 
without pausing, the friar, if it were a friar, said,— 


376 


JOHN inglesant: 


[chap, xxxiir. 


“He is in Naples. In that city, or near it, you will find 
the man you seek. Ay ! and far more than you seek. Let 
there be no delay on your part.” 

Then, still holding the crucifix forward at arm’s length, as 
though to cleave the poisoned air before him as he went, the 
figure passed up the street, turning neither to the right nor to 
the left, and, taking no notice of any of the few loiterers in his 
way, passed quickly out of sight. 

Inglesant turned to two fishermen who were coming slowly 
down towards the ferry. 

“ Did you see that Servite friar ?” he said. 

The men gazed at him uneasily. “ He is light-headed,’* 
one of them muttered; “he has the plague upon him, and does 
not know what he says.” 

Though he said this, they might have seen the friar all the 
same, for Inglesant’s manner was excited, and those were 
perilous times in which to speak to strangers in the streets. 
The two men got into the boat, and passed over hastily to the 
other side. 

Naples ! It was walking straight into the jaws of death. 
The dead were lying in the streets in heaps, sprinkled hastily 
with lime; and lavish gifts of freedom and of gold could 
scarcely keep the galley slaves from breaking out of the city, 
though they knew that poverty and probably destruction 
awaited them elsewhere. But this strange message from 
another world, which bore such an impress of a higher know¬ 
ledge, how could he disobey it ? “ Far more than he sought.” 

These words haunted him. He made inquiries at the mon¬ 
astery of the Jesuits in the Corso, but could hear nothing of 
such a man. Most of those to whom he spoke were of opinion 
that he had seen a vision. He himself sometimes thought it 
an illusion of the brain, conjured up by the story of the man 
who came from Naples, by the afternoon heat, and by the 
sight of the dead; but in all this the divine wisdom might be 
working; by these strange means the divine hand might guide. 
“ Let there be no delay on your part.” These words sounded 
like a far-off echo of Father St. Clare’s voice; once again the 
old habit of obedience stirred within him. Wife and child and 
home stood in the path, but the training which first love had 
been powerless to o])pose was not likely to fail now. Once 
again his station seemed to be given him. Before—upon the 


CHAP. XXXIV.] 


A ROMANCE. 


377 


scaffold, at the traitor’s dock, in prison—he had been found at 
the appointed post; would it be worth while now, when life 
was so much farther run out, to falter and turn back ? The 
higher walks of the holy life had indeed proved too difficult 
and steep, but to this running-footman’s sort of business he had 
before proved himself equal;—should he now be found untrust¬ 
worthy even in this 1 

He resolved to go. If he returned at all, he would be back 
at the Gastello before any increased apprehension would be felt; 
if it were the will of God that he should never return, the 
Jesuit fathers would undertake the care of Lauretta and his 
child. 

He confessed and received the Sacrament at the Church of 
the Gesu, in the Chapel of St. Ignatio, in the clear morning 
light, kneeling upon the cold brilliant marble floor. It was 
the last day of July, veiy early, and the Church was swept and 
garnished for the great festival of the Saint. Inglesant did 
not wait for the saddened festival, but left Rome immediately 
that the early mass was done. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

When Inglesant had passed the Pontine Marshes, and had 
come into the flowery and wooded country about Mola, where 
the traveller begins to rejoice and to delight his eyes, he found 
this beautiful land little less oi)pressive than the dreary marshes 
he had left. The vineyards covered the slopes, and hung their 
festoons on every side. The citron and jasmin and orange 
bloomed around him ; and in the cooler and more shady walks 
flowers yet covered the ground, in spite of the heat. The sober 
tints of the oaks and beeches contrasted with the brilliant 
orano-e groves and vineyards, and, with the palms and aloes, 
offered that variety which usually charms the traveller; and 
the distant sea, calm and blue, with the long headlands covered 
with battlements and gay villas, with plantations and terraces, 
carried the eye onward into the dim unknown distance, with 
what is usually a sense of delightful desire. 

But as Inglesant rode along, an overpowering sense of op¬ 
pression and heaviness hung over this beautiful laud. The heat 


378 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap. XXXIV. 


was intense; no rain nor dew had fallen for many weeks. The 
ground in most places was scored and hard, and the leaves were 
withered. The brooks were nearly dry, and the plantations 
near the roads were white with dust. An overpowering per¬ 
fume, sickly and penetrating, filled the air, and seemed to choke 
the breath ; a deadly stillness pervaded the laud ; and scarcely 
a human form, either of wayfarer or peasant, was to be seen. 

At the small towns near to Naples every form of life was 
silent and inert. Inglesant was received without difiiculty, as 
he was going towards Naples; but he was regarded with 
wonder, and remonstrated with as courting certain death. He 
halted at A versa, and waited till the mid-day heat was past. 
Here, at last, there seemed some little activity and life. A 
sort of market even appeared to be held, and Inglesant asked 
the host what it meant. 

“ When the plague first began in Naples, signore,” he said, 
“ a market was established here to supply the city with bread, 
fresh meat, and other provisions. Officers appointed by -the 
city came out hither, and conveyed it back. But, as the plague 
became more deadly, most of those thus sent out never returned 
to the city, in spite of the penalties to which such conduct 
exposed them. Since the plague spread into the country places, 
the peasants have mostly ceased to bring their produce; but 
what little is brought you see here, and one of the magistrates 
is generally obliged to come out from Naples to receive it.” 

“ Is the city suffering from famine then ?” asked Inglesant. 

“ The city is like hell itself. Signore il Cavaliere,’’ replied 
the host. “ They tell me that he who looks upon it will never 
be able to sleep peacefully again. They lie heaped together in 
the streets, the dying and the dead. The hospitals are choked 
with dead bodies, so that none dare go in. They are blowing 
up masses of houses, so as to bury the bodies under the ruins 
with lime and water and earth. Twenty thousand persons have 
died in a single day. Those who have been induced to touch 
the dead to cart them away never live more than two days.” 

“The religious, and the physicians, and the magistrates, 
then, remain at their posts V’ said Inglesant. 

The host shrugged his shoulders. 

“ There is not more to be said of one class than another,” 
he said; “ there are cowards in all. Many of the physicians 
fled; but, on the other hand, two strange physicians came 


CHAP. XXXIV.] 


A ROMANCK 


379 


forward of their own accord, and offered to be shut up in tlie 
Santa Casa Hospital. They never came out alive. Many of 
the religious fled; but the Capuchins and the Jesuits, they say, 
are all dead. Most of the Franciscan Friars are dead, and all 
the great Carmelites. They run to all houses that are most 
infected, and to those streets that are the most thronged with 
putrefied bodies, and into those hospitals where the plague is 
liottest ; and confess the sick and attend them to their last 
gasp; and receive their poisonous breath as though it were the 
scent of a rose.” 

“ But is no attempt made to bury the dead ?” 

They are letting out the galley slaves by a hundred at a 
time,” replied the host; “ they offer freedom and a pension for 
life to the survivors, but none do survive. Fathers and mothers 
desert their own children; children their parents: nay, they 
throw them out into the streets to die. What would you 
have 1” 

• The host paused, and looked at Inglesant curiously, as he 
sat drinking some wine. 

“Have you a lady-love in Naples, signore?” he said at 
hist; “ or are you heir to a rich man, and wish to save his 
gold ?” 

“ I am leaving wife and child,” replied Inglesant, bitterly, 
“ to seek a man whom I hate, whom I shall never find under 
the heaps of dead. You had better say at once that I am mad. 
That is nearest to the truth.” 

The host looked at him compassionately, and left the room. 

In the cool of the evening Inglesant rode through the 
deserted vineyards, and approached the barriers. On the way 
he met some few foot-passengers, pale and emaciated, trudging 
doggedly onwards. They were leaving death behind them, but 
they saw nothing but misery and death elsewhere. They took 
no notice of Inglesant as they passed. Many of them, exhausted 
and smitten with the disease, sank down and died by the way- 
side. When he arrived at the barriers, he found them deserted, 
and no guard whatever kept. He left his horse at a little 
osteria without the gate, which also seemed deserted. There 
was hay in the stable, and the animal might shift for himself 
if so inclined. Inglesant left him loose. As he entered the 
city, and passed through the Largo into the Strada Toledo, the 
sight that met his eyes was one never to be forgotten. 


380 


JOHN INGLESANT 


[chap. XXXIV. 


The streets were full of people,—more so, indeed, than is 
usual even in Naples; for business was at a stand, the houses 
were full of infection, and a terrible restlessness drove every one 
here and there. The stately rows of houses and palaces, and 
the lofty churches, looked down on a changing, fleeting, restless 
crowd,—unoccupied, speaking little, walking hither and thither 
with no aim, every few minutes turning back and retracing their 
steps. Every quarter of an hour or thereabouts a confused 
procession of priests and laymen, singing doleful and despairing 
misereres, and bearing the sacred Host with canopy and crosses, 
came from one of the side streets, or out of one of the Churches, 
and proceeded along the Strada. As these processions passed, 
every one prostrated themselves, with an excess and desperate 
earnestness of devotion, and many followed the Host; but in a 
moment or two those who knelt or those who followed rose or 
turned away with gestures of despair or distraction, as though 
incapable of sustained action, or of confidence in any remedy. 
And at this there could be no wonder, since this crowd of people 
were picking their way amid a mass of dead corruption on every 
side of them under their feet. On the stone pavement of the 
stately Strada, on the palace stairs, on the steps before the 
Churches, lay corpses in every variety of contortion at which 
death can arrive. Sick people upon beds and heaps of linen— 
some delicate and costly, some filthy and decayed—lay mingled 
with the dead; they had been turned out of the houses, or had 
deserted them to avoid being left to die alone; and every now 
and then some one of those who walked apparently in health 
would lie down, stricken by the heat or by the plague, and join 
this prostrate throng, for whom there was no longer in this 
world any hope of revival. 

This sight, which would have been terrible anywhere, was 
unutterably distressing and ghastly in Naples, the city of 
thoughtless pleasure and of reckless mirth,—a city lying under 
a blue and cloudless sky, by an azure sea, glowing in the unsur¬ 
passable brilliancy and splendour of the sun. As this dazzling 
blue and gold, before which all colours pale, made the scene the 
most ghastly that could have been chosen as the theatre for 
such an appalling spectacle, so, among a people child-like and 
grotesque, seducing the stranger into sympathy with its delight 
—a people crowned with flowers, and clothed in colours of every 
shade, full of high and gay spirits, and possessed of a conscience 


A ROMANCE. 


381 


CHAP. XXXIV.] 

that gives no pain—this masque and dance of death assumed 
an aspect of intolerable horror. Naples was given over to 
pantomime and festival, leading dances and processions with 
T}i 3 a'sis and garlands, and trailing branches of fruit. The old 
Fabiila) and farce lingered yet beneath the delicious sky and in 
the lovely spots of earth that lured the Pagan to dream that 
earth was heaven. The poles and scaffolds and dead flowers of 
the last festival still lingered in the streets. 

In this city, turned at once into a charnel-house—nay, into 
a hell and place of torment,—the mighty, unseen hand suddenly 
struck down its prey, and without warning seized upon the 
wretched conscience, all unprepared for sucli a blow. The cast 
of a pantomime is a strange sight beneath the glare and light 
of mid-day; but here were quacks and nobles, jugglers and 
soldiers, comic actors and “filosofi,” pleasure-seekers and monks, 
gentry and beggars, all surpi'ised as it were, suddenly, by the 
light and glare of the death angel’s torch, and crowded upon one 
level stage of misery and despair. 

Sick and dizzy with horror, and choked with the deadly 
smell and malaria, Inglesant turned into several osteria, but 
could find no host in any. In several he saw sights which 
chilled his blood. At last he gave up the search, and, weary as 
he was, sought the hospitals. The approaches to some of these 
wxre so blocked up by the dead and the dying who had vainly 
sought admission, that entrance was impossible. In others the 
galley slaves were at work. In every open spot of ground 
where the earth could be disturbed without cutting off the 
water pipes which ran through the city, trenches had been dug, 
and the bodies which were collected from the streets and hospi¬ 
tals were thrown hastily into them, and covered with lime and 
earth. Inglesant strayed into the “M'oiite della Misericordia ” 
which had recently been cleared of the dead. A few sick per¬ 
sons lay in the beds; but the house seemed wonderfully clean 
and sweet, and the rooms cool and fresh. The floors were soaked 
with vinegar, and the place was full of the scent of juniper, bay 
berries, and rosemary, which were burning in every room. It 
seemed to Inglesant like a little heaven, and he sank exhausted 
upon one of the beds. Tliey brought him some wine, and pre¬ 
sently the Signore di Mauro, one of the physicians appointed by 
the city, who still remained biavely at his post, came and spoke 
to him. 


382 


JOHN INGLESANT ; [CHAP. XXXIV. 

“ I perceive that you are a stranger in Naples and untouched 
by the disease,” he said. “ I am at a loss to account for your 
presence here. This house is indeed cleared for a moment, but 
it is the last time that we can expect help. The supply of 
galley slaves is failing, and when it stops entirely, which it must 
in a few days, I see nothing in the future but the general extir¬ 
pation of all the inhabitants of this fated city, and that its vast 
circumference, filled with putrefaction and venom, will afterwards 
be uninhabitable to the rest of mankind.” 

This doleful foreboding made little impression upon Inglesant, 
who was, indeed, too much exhausted both in inind and body 
to pay much attention to anything. 

“ I am come to Naples,” he said faintly, “ in search of 
another; will you let me stay in this house to-night ? I can 
find no one in the inns.” 

“ I will do better for you than that,” said the good physician; 
“ you shall come to my own house, which is free from infection. 
I have but one inmate, an old servant, who, I think, is too dry 
and withered a morsel even for the plague. I am going at once.” 

Something in Inglesant’s manner probably attracted him, 
otherwise it is difficult to account for his kindness to a stranger 
under such circumstances. 

They went out together. Inglesant by chance seemed to 
be about to turn into another and smaller street—the physician 
pulled him back hurriedly with a shudder. 

“Whatever you do,” he said in a whisper, “keep to the 
principal thoroughfares. I dare not recollect—the most heated 
imagination would shrink from conceiving—the unutterable 
horrors of the bye-streets.” 

Picking their way among the dead bodies, which the slaves, 
with handkerchiefs steeled in vinegar over their faces, were 
piling into carts, the two proceeded down the Strada. 

Inglesant asked the physician how the plague first began in 
Naples, 

“ It is the terrible enemy of mankind,” replied the other— 
he was rather a pompous man, with all his kindness and 
devotion, and used long words—“that walks stained with 
slaughter by night. We know not whence it comes. Before 
it are beautiful gardens, crowded habitations, and populous 
cities; behind it unfruitful emptiness and howling desolation. 
Before it the guards and armies of mighty princes are as dead 


CHAP. XXXIV.] 


A ROMANCE. 


383 


men, and physicians are no protection either to the sick or 
to themselves. Some imagine that it comes from the cities of 
the East; some that it arises from poverty and famine, and 
from the tainted and perishing flesh, and imripe fruits and 
hurtful herbs, which, in times of scarcity and dearth, the 
starving people greedily devour to satisfy their craving hunger. 
Others contend that it is inflicted immediately by the hand of 
God. These are mostly the priests. When we have puzzled 
our reason, and are at our wit’s end through ignorance, we come 
to that. I have read something in a play, written by one of 
your countrymen—for I perceive you are an Englishman— 
where all mistakes are laid upon the King.” 

They -were arrived by this time at the physician’s house, 
and w'ere received by an old woman whose appearance fully 
justified her master’s description. She provided for Inglesant’s 
wants, and prepared a bed for him, and he sank into an uneasy 
and restless sleep. The night was stiflingly hot, suppressed 
cries and groans broke the stillness, and the distant chanting 
of monks was heai’d at intervals. Soon after midnight the 
Churches were again crowded; mass was said, and thousands 
received the Sacrament with despairing faith. The xfliysician 
came into Inglesant’s room early in the morning. 

“ I am going out,” he said; “ keep as much as possible out 
of the Churches; they spread the contagion. The magistrates 
wished to close them, but the superstitious peoide wmuld not 
hear of it. I will make inquiries, and if any of the religious, or 
any one else, has heard your friend’s name, I will send you 
wmrd. I may not return.” 

Shortly after he w\as gone, the crowd thronging in one 
direction before Inglesant’s wdndow caused him to rise and 
follow. He came to one of the slopes of the hill of Santo 
Martino, above the city. Here a crowd, composed of every 
class, from a noble down to the lowest lazzaroni, w^ere engaged, 
in the clear morning light, in building a small house. Some 
were making bricks, some drawing along stones, some carrying 
timber. A nun had dreamed that were a hermitage erected for 
her order the plague would cease, and the people set to work, 
with desperate earnestness, to finish the building. By the way- 
side up the ascent were set empty barrels, into which tiie 
wealthier citizens dropped gold and jewTjs to assist the work. 
As Ingiesant was standing by, watching the work, he was 


384 


JOHN INGLESANT ; 


[chap. XXXIV. 


accosted by a dignified, higlily bred old gentleman, in a velvet 
coat and Venice lace, who seemed less absorbed in the general 
panic than the rest. 

“This is a strange sight,” he said; “what the tyranny of 
the Spaniards was not able to do, the plague has done. When 
the Spaniard was storming the gates the gentlemen of the 
Borgo Santa Maria and the lazzaroni fought each other in the 
streets, and the gentlemen avowed that they preferred any 
degree of foreign tyranny to acknowledging or associating with 
the common people. With this deadly enemy not only at the 
gates but in tlie very midst of us, gentlemen and lazzaroni toil 
together without a thought of suspicion or contempt. The 
plague has made us all equal. I perceive that you are a 
stranger. May I ask what has brought you into this ill-fated 
city at such a time 

“ I am ill search of my relation, il Cavaliere di Guardino,” 
replied Inglesant; “do you know such a name V’ 

“It seems familiar to me,” replied the old gentleman. 
“Have you reason to suppose that he is in Naples'?” 

Inglesant said that he had. 

“ The persons most likely to give you information would be 
the Signori, the officers of the galleys. They woidd doubtless 
be acquainted with the Cavaliere before the plague became so 
violent, and would know, at any rate, whether it was his 
intention to leave Naples or not. The galleys lie, as you know, 
moored together there in the bay, and many other ships lie near 
them, upon which persons have taken refuge who believe that 
the plague cannot touch them on the water—an expectation in 
which, I believe, many have been fatally deceived.” 

Inglesant thanked the gentleman, and inquired how it was 
that he remained so calm and unconcerned amidst the general 
consternation. 

“ I am too old for the plague,” he replied; “nothing can 
touch me but death itself. I am also,” he continued with a 
peculiar smile, “ the fortunate possessor of a true piece of the 
holy Cross; so that you see I am doubly safe.” 

Inglesant went at once to the harbour, musing on the way 
on these last words, and wondering whether they were spoken 
in good faith or irony. 

The scenes on the streets seemed more terrible even than 
on the preceding day. Tlie slaves were engaged here and there 


CHAP. XXXIV.] 


A KOMANCE. 


385 


in removing the bodies, but the task was far beyond their 
strength. Cries of pain and terror were heard on all sides, and 
every now and then a maddened wretch would throw himself 
from a window, or would rush, naked perhaps, from a house, 
and, stumbling and leaping over the corpses and the dying, like 
the demoniac among the tombs, would fling himself in despera¬ 
tion into the water of the harbour, or over the walls into the 
moats. One of these maniacs, passing close to Inglesant, at¬ 
tempted to embrace a passer-by, who coolly ran him through 
the body with his sword, the bystanders applauding the act. 

Ill the harbour corpses were floating, which a few slaves in 
boats* w'ere feebly attempting to drag together with hooks. 
They escajied their efforts, and rose and sank wdth a ghastly 
resemblance to life. Upon the quay Inglesant fortunately found 
the physician. Signore Mauro, who was himself going on board 
the galleys to endeavour to procure the loan of more slaves. 
He offered to take Inglesant with him. 

As they went the physician told him he had not discovered 
any trace of the Cavaliere; but what was very curious, he said, 
many other persons appeared to be engaged in the same search. 
It might be that all these people were in fact but one, multi¬ 
plied by the forgetfulness, and by the excited imaginations of 
those from whom Signore Mauro had obtained his information; 
but, if tliese persons were to be believed, monks, friars, phy¬ 
sicians, soldiers, and even ladies, were engaged in this singular 
search in a city w^here all ties of friendship were forgotten, for 
a man wdiom no one knew. 

As they shot over the silent water, and by the shadowy 
hidks of ships lying idle and untended, with the cry of the city 
of the dead behind them and the floating corpses around, Ingle¬ 
sant listened to the physician as a man listens in a dream. 
Long shadows stretched across the harbour, which sparkled 
beneath the rays of the newly-risen sun ; a sudden swoon stole 
over Inglesant’s spirits, through which the voice of the physician 
sounded distant and faint. He gave himself up for lost, yet he 
felt a kind of dim expectation that something was about to 
happen which these unknown inquirers foretold. 

The galleys lay moored near together, with several other 
^lips of large size in company. Signore Mauro climbed to the 
quarter-deck of the largest galley, on which the commodore was, 
and Inglesant followed him, still hardly knowing what he did, 

2 c 


386 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap. XXXIV. 


The oars were shipped, but the slaves were chained to their 
benches, as though the galleys were at sea. They wei-e singing 
and playing at cards. Upon the quarter-deck, pointing to the 
long files of slaves, were two loaded howitzers, behind each of 
which stood a gunner with a lighted match. Soldiers lieavily 
armed, and with long whips, paraded the raised gangsvay or pass¬ 
age which ran the whole length of the ship between the rows 
of benches upon which the slaves were placed. The officers 
were mostly on the quarter-deck; they looked pale and excited, 
though it was singular that few or no cases of the plague had 
occurred among the slaves who remained on board. The decks 
were washed with vinegar, and the galleys and slaves were* much 
cleaner than usual. 

The physician stated his request to the commander, who 
ordered ten slaves from every galley to be sent on shore. Some 
were wanted to act as bakers, some as butchers,, most of the 
artizans in the city having fled or perished. A boatswain vv’as 
ordered to make the selection. He chose one or two, and then 
called upon tlie rest to volunteer. Inglesant was standing by 
him on the gangway, looking down the files of slaves. There 
were men of every age, of every rank, and almost of every 
country. As the boatswain gave the word, every hand was 
held up; to all these men death was welcome at the end of 
two or three days’ change of life, abundance of food, and com¬ 
parative freedom. The boatswain selected ten by chance. 

Signore Mauro inquired among the officers concerning the 
Cavaliere, but could obtain no positive information. Most had 
heard the name, some professed to have known him intimately; 
all united in saying he had left Naples. Inglesant and the 
physician visited two or three other galleys, but with no 
greater success. They returned on shore as the heat was be¬ 
coming intense; the Churches vrere crowded, and the Holy 
Sacrament was exhibited every few moments. The physician 
refused to enter any of them. 

Then Inglesant determined to try the hospitals again. He 
went to the “Santa Casa degli Iricurabile,” which the day 
before he had not been able to approach for the dying and the 
dead. The slaves had worked hard all night, and hundreds of 
corpses had been removed and buried in a vast trench without 
the wall of the hospital. Inglesant passed through many of 
the rooms, and spoke to several of the religious persons wiio 


CHAP. XXXIV.] 


A ROTHANCE. 


3S7 


■were tending the sich, but could lea.ru nothing of the object of 
his search. At last one of. the monies conducted him into the 
strange room called the “ Anticamera di Morte/’ to which, in 
more orderly times, the patients whose cases were hopeless 
were removed. 

There, at the last extremity of life, before they were hurried 
into the great pit outside the walls, lay the plague-stricken. 
Some unconscious, yet with fearful throes and gasps awaiting 
their release; some in an agony of pain and death, crying upon 
God and the Saints. Kneeling by the bedsides were several 
monks ; but at the farther end of the room, bending over a 
sick man, was a figure in a friar’s gown that made Inglesant 
stop suddenly, and his heart beat quicker as he caught his 
companion’s arm. 

“Who is that friar. Fatherf’ he said, “the one at the end, 
bending over the bed F’ 

“Ah ! that,” said the priest, “ that is Father Grazia of the 
Capuchins ; a very holy man, and devoted to mortification and 
good works. He is blind, though he moves about so cleverly. 
He says that, to within the last few years, his life was passed 
in every species of sin; and he relates that he was solemnly 
given over to the vengeance of the blessed Gesu by his mortal 
enemy, the minion of a Cardinal, and that the Lord has afflicted 
him w’ith untold sorrow's and sufferings to bring him to Himself 
and to a life of holy mortification and charity, which he leads 
unceasingly—night and day. He is but now' come in hither, 
know'ing that the sick man by w'hose bed he is, is d3dng of the 
plague in its most fearful form,—a man whom none willingly 
w'ill approach. Mostly he is in the vilest dens of the city, 
reeking with pestilence, w'here to go, to all save him, is certain 
death. His holiness and the Lord’s will keep him, so that the 
plague cannot touch him. Ah ! he is coming this way.” 

It was true. The friar had suddenly started from his recum¬ 
bent position, conscious that the man before him was no more. 
At the same moment, his mind, released from the attention 
w'hich had riveted it before, seemed to become aw'are of a 
presence in the chamber of death which was of the intensest 
interest. He came dew'll the passage in the centre of the room 
■w'ith an eager unfaltering step, as though able to see, and 
coming to wdthin a few feet of the two men, he stopped, and 
looked tow'ards them with an excited glance, as though he saw 


S8S 


JOBN INGLESANT 


[chap. XXXIV. 


their fates. Inglesant was embarrassed, and hesitated whether 
to recognize him or not. At last, pitying the look in the blind 
man’s face, he said,— 

“ This holy Father is not unknown to me, though I know 
not that he would desire to meet me again. I am ‘ the minion 
of a Cardinal’ of whom you spoke.” 

The friar stretched out his hands before him, with an eager, 
delighted gesture. 

“ I knew it,” he said; “ I felt your presence long before 
you spoke. It signifies little whether I am glad to find you or 
no. It is part of the Lord’s purpose that we should meet.” 

“ This is a strange and sanctified meeting,” said the priest, 
“in the room of death, and by the beds of the dead. Doubt¬ 
less you have much to say that can only be said to yourselves 
alone. ” 

“I cannot stay,” said the friar, wildly. “I came in here 
but for a moment; for this wretched man who is gone to his 
account needed one as wretched and as wicked as himself But 
they are dying now in the streets and alleys, calling upon the 
God whom they know not; they need the vilest sinner to whom 
the Lord has been gracious, to kneel by their side ; they need 
the vilest sinner; therefore I must go.” 

He stopped for a moment, then he said more calmly, “ Meet 
me in the Santa Chiara, behind the altar, by the tomb of the 
wise King, this evening at sunset. By that time, though the 
need will be as pressing, yet the frail body will need a little 
rest, and I will speak with you for an hour. Fail not to come. 
You will learn how your sword was the sword, and your breath 
was the breath, of the Lord.” 

“ I will surely be there,” said Inglesant. 

The friar departed, leaving the priest and Inglesant alone. 
They went out into the garden of the hospital, a plot of ground 
planted with fruit trees, and with vines trailing over the high 
stone walls. Walking up and d9wn in the shade, with the 
intense blue of the sky overhead, one might for a time forget 
the carnival of death that was crowding every street and lane 
around, Inglesant inquired of his companion more particularly 
concerning the friar. 

“ He is a very holy man,” said the priest, with a significant 
gestm-e; “ but he is not right in his head. His sufterings liave 
touched his brain. He believes that he has seen the Lord in 


CHAP. XXXV.] 


A ROMANCE. 


383 


a vision, and not only so, but that all Rome was likev ise a 
witness of the miracle. It is a wonderful story, which, doubt¬ 
less he wishes to relate to you this evening.” 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

In the vast Church of the Santa Chiara, with its open nave 
which spread itself on every side like a magic hall of romance, 
the wide floor and the altars of the side Chapels had been 
crowded all day by prostrate worshippers; but when luglesant 
entered it about sunset, it was comparatively empty. A 
strange unearthly perfume filled the Church, and clouds of 
incense yet hovered beneath the painted ceiling, and obscured 
the figirre of the Saint chasing his enemies. Streaks of light, 
trans%ured through the coloured prism of the prophets and 
martyrs that stood in the painted glass, lighted up the wreaths 
of smoke, and coloured the marbles and frescoes of the walls 
and altars. The mystic glimmer of the sacred tapers in the 
shaded chapels, and the concluding strains of the chanting 
before the side altars, which had followed the vesper service 
and benediction, filled the Church with half light and half 
shadow, half silence and half sound, very pleasing and soothing 
to the sense. 

Inglesant passed up the Church towards the high altar, 
before which he knelt; and as he did so, a procession, carrying 
the Sacrament, entered by another door, and advanced to the 
altar, upon which it was again deposited. The low, melancholy 
miserere—half entreating, half desponding—spoke to the heart 
of man a language like its ovm; and as the theme was taken 
up by one of the organs, the builder’s art and the musician’s 
melted into one—in tier after tier of carved imagery, vrave after 
wave of mystic sound. All conscious thought and striving 
seemed to fade from the heart, and before the altar and amid 
the swell of sound the soul lost itself, and lay silent and passive 
on the Eternal Love. 

Behind the high altar Inglesant found the friar by the 
grave of the wise King. Upon the slabs of the Gothic tomb, 
covered with carving and bas-relief, the King is seated and 
di’essed in royal robes j but upon the sarcophagus he lies in 


390 


JOEN INGLESANT; 


[chap. XXXV. 


death bereft of all his statt?, and clothed in no garment but a 
Franciscan’s gown. Beside him lies his son in his royal robes, 
covered with fleurs-de-lis; and other tombs of the kingly race 
of Anjou surround him, all emblazoned with coat armour and 
device of rank. 

Between the tombs of the two kings stood the friar, his 
head bowed upon his hands. The light grew every moment 
less and less bright, and the shadows stretched ever longer and 
longer across the marble floor. The lamps before the shrines, 
and the altar tapers in the funeral chapels, shone out clearer 
and more distinct. The organs had ceased, but the dolorous 
chanting of the miserere from beyond the high altar still came 
to them with a remote and wailing tone. 

Inglesant advanced towards the friar, who appeared to be 
aware of his presence by instinct, and raised his head as he 
drew near. He returned no answer to Inglesant’s greeting, but 
seated himself upon a bench near one of the tombs, and began 
at once, like a man who has little time to spend. 

“I am desirous,” he said, “of telling you at once of what 
has occiuTed to me. Who can tell what may happen at any 
moment to hinder unless I do ? It is a strange and wonderful 
story, in which you and I and all men would be but puppets in 
the Divine Hand were not the Divine Love such that we are 
rather children led onward by theii' Father’s hand—welcomed 
home by their Mother’s smile.” 

It was indeed a strange story that the friar told Inglesant 
in the darkening Church. In places it was incoherent and 
obsciu*e. The first part of his narrative, as it relates to others 
besides himself, is told here in a different form, so that, if 
possible, what really happened might be known. The latter 
part, being untranslatable into any other language and inexpli¬ 
cable upon any basis of fact, must be told in his own words. 

“ When you left me at the mountain chapel,” said the friar, 
“ I thought of nothing but that I had escaped with life. I 
thought I had met Avith a Fantastic, vdiose brain was turned 
•with monkish flincies, and I blessed my fortunate stars that 
such had been the case. I thought little of the Divine 
vengeance that dogged my steps.” 

When Inglesant met Malvolti upon the mountain pass (as 
he gathered from the friar’s narrative), the latter, utterly penni¬ 
less and undone, having exhausted every shift and art of policy, 


CHAP. XXXV.] 


A ROMANCE. 


391 


and being so well known in all the cities of Italy that he was 
safe in none of them, had bethought himself of his native place. 
It was, indeed, almost the only place where his character was 
unknown, and his person comparatively safe. But it had other 
attractions for the hunted and desperate man. Malvolti’s father 
had died when his son was a boy, and his mother in a year or 
two married again. His step-father was harsh and unkind to 
the fatherless child, and the seeds of evil were sown in the boy’s 
heart by the treatment he received; but a year after this 
marriage a little girl was born, who won her way at once into 
tlie heart of the forlorn and unhappy lad. He was her constant 
playmate, protector, and instructor. For several years the only 
happy moments of his life were passed when he could steal away 
with her to the woods and hills, wandering for hours together 
alone or with the wood-cutters and charcoal-burners ; and when, 
after a few years, the unkind ness of his parents and his own 
restless and passionate nature sent him out into the world in 
■which he played so evil a part, the image of the innocent child 
followed him into scenes of vice, and was never obliterated from 
his memory. The murmur of tlie leaves above the fowling-floor 
where they lay together during the mid-day heat, the splash of 
the fountains where they watched the flocks of sheep drinking, 
followed him into strange places and foreign countries, and 
arose to his recollection in moments of danger, and even of 
passion and crime. 

The home of Malvolti’s parents had been in the suburb of 
a small town of the Bolognese. Here, at some little height 
above the town on the slope of the wooded hills, a monastery 
and chapel had been erected, and in course of time some few 
houses had grouped themselves around, among which that of 
Malvolti’s father had been the most considerable. The sun was 
setting behind the hills when Malvolti, weary, dispirited, and 
dying of hunger, came along the winding road from the south, 
which skirted the projecting spurs of the mountains. The 
slanting rays penetrated the woods, and shone between the 
openings of the hills, lighting up tlie grass-grown buildings of 
the monastery, and the belfry of the little Chapel, where the 
bell was ringing for vespers. Below, the plain stretched itself 
peacefully; a murmur of running water blended with the tolling 
of the bell. A waft of peace and calm, like a breeze from 
paradise, fell upon Malvolti’s heart, and he seemed to hear 


392 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap. xxxy. 


soft voices 'welcoming him home. He pictured to himself his 
mother’s kind greeting, his sister’s delight; even his stern stei> 
father’s figure was softened in the universal evening glow. It 
was a fairy vision, in whicli the passing years had found no 
place, where the avenging footsteps that follow sin did not 
come, and which had no reality in actual existence. He turned 
the angle of the wood, and stood before his home. It lay in 
ruins and desolate. 

The sun sank below the hills, the hell went on tolling 
monotonously through the deepening gloom. Dazed and faint, 
Malvolti followed its tones into the Chapel, where the vesper 
service began. When it was ended the miserable man spoke to 
one of the monks, and craved some food. Deprived of his last 
hope, his senses faint and dull with weariness and hunger, and 
lulled by the soft strains of devout sound—his life confessed at 
last to have been completely a fmlme, and the wages of sin to 
have turned to withered leaves in his hand—his heart was more 
disposed than perhaps it had ever been to listen to the soft 
accents of penitence, and to hear the whispering murmirr that 
haunts the shadowy walks of mortified repentance. Comforted 
by food, the kindly words of pity and exhortation stole upon 
Ids senses, and he almost fancied that he might find a home 
and peace without fui’ther wandering and punishment. He 
was much deceived. 

He inquired concerning the fate of those whom, debased 
and selfish as he was, he still loved, especially now, when the 
sight of long-forgotten but still familiar places recalled the 
past, and seemed to obliterate the intervenmg years. The 
monks told him a story of sorrow and of sin, such as he himself 
often had participated in, and would have lieard at another 
time with a smile of indifference. His step-father was dead, 
killed in a feud which his own insolent temper had provoked. 
His mother and sister had continued for some time to live in 
the same house, and there perhaps he might have found them, 
had not a gentleman, whose convenience had led him to claim 
the hospitality of the monastery for a night’s rest, chanced to 
see his sister in the morning as he mounted his horse. The 
sight of a face, whose beauty combined a haughty clearness of 
outline with a certain coy softness of expression, and a figure of 
perfect form, detained him from his intended journey, and he 
obtained admittance into the widow’s house. What wizard arts 


A ROMANCE. 


393 


CHAP. XXXV.] 

he practised the monks did not know, but when he departed he 
left anxiety and remorse where he had found content and a 
certain peace. In due time the two women, despairing of his 
return, had followed him, and the younger, the monks had 
heard (and they believed the report)—ill-treated and spimied— 
was now living in Florence a life of sin. The softened expres¬ 
sion of rest and penitence which had begun to show itself in 
Malvolti’s face left it, and the more habitual one of cruel and 
hungry sin returned as he inquired,— 

“Did the Eeverend Fathers remember the name of this 
man V’ 

The good monks hesitated as they saw the look in the in¬ 
quirer’s face; but it was not their duty to conceal the truth 
from one who undoubtedly had a right to be informed of it. 

“ It is our duty to practise forgiveness, even of the gveatest 
injuries, my son,” one of them replied; “ our blessed Lord has 
enjoined it, and left us this as an example, that He has forgiven 
us. The man was called il Cavaliere di Guardino.” 

The monks were relieved when they saw that their guest 
showed no emotion upon hearing this name; only he said that 
he must go to Florence and endeavour to find his sister. 

But in truth there was in the man’s mind, under a calm 
exterior, a crisis of feeling not easy to describe. That the 
Cavaliere, his familiar accomplice, in whose company and by 
whose aid he had himself so often committed ravages upon the 
innocent, should, in the chance medley of life, be selected to 
inflict this blow, affected him in a strange and unaccustomed 
way, with the sense of a hitherto unrecognized justice at work 
among the affairs of men. He was so utterly at the end of all 
his hopes, life was so completely closed to him, and his soul 
was so sorely stricken, in return for all his sins, in the only 
holy and sacred spot that remained in his fallen nature,—his 
love and remembrance of his sister,— that it seemed as if a 
revulsion of feeling might take place, and that, in this depth 
and slough, there might appear, though dimly, the possibility 
of an entrance into a higher life. He was better known in 
Florence than in any city of Italy, except Rome; and if he 
went there his violent death was almost certain, yet he de¬ 
termined to go. He assured Inglesant afterwards, in relating 
the story, that his object was not revenge, but that his desire 
was to seek out and rescue his sister. Revenge doubtless 


394 JOHN INGLESANl j [CHAP. XXXV. 

brooded in liis mind; but it was not tbe motive which urged 
him onward. 

He told Inglesant a strange story of his weary journey to 
Florence, subsisting on charity from convent to convent ; of his 
wandering up and down in the beautiful city, worn out with 
hunger and fatigue, unknown, and hiding himself from recogni¬ 
tion. Amid the grim forms of vice that haunted the shadowy 
recesses of the older parts of the city, in the vaulted halls of 
deserted palaces and the massive fastnesses of patrician strife, 
he flitted like a ghost, pale and despairing, urged on by a rest¬ 
less desire that knew no respite. In these dens of a reckless 
life, which had thrown off all restraint and decorum, he recog¬ 
nized many whom he had known in other days, and in far 
different places. In these gloomy halls, which had once been 
bright with youth and gaiety, but were now hideous wdtli 
poverty and crime,—in which the wdndows were darkened, and 
the coloured ceilings and frescoed walls were blurred with 
smoke and damp, and which were surrounded by narrow alleys 
which shut out the light, and cut them off from all connection 
with the outer world,—he at last heard of the Cavaliere. He 
w^as told that, flying from Rome after his sister’s marriage, he 
had been arrested for some offence in the south of Italy, and 
those into whose hands he fell being old enemies, and bearing 
him some grudge, he was thrown into prison, and even con¬ 
demned to the galleys, for, since the Papal election, he was no 
longer able to claim even a shadow of protection from any of 
the great families who had once been his patrons. After a 
short imprisonment he was deputed, among others, to perform 
some such office as Inglesant had seen undertaken by the slaves 
in Naples, for the plague had raged for some summers past, 
with more or less intensity, in southern Italy. While engaged 
in this work he had managed to make his escape, and had not 
long since arrived in Florence, where he had kept himself 
closely concealed. Malvolti was told the secret lurking-place 
where he might probably be found. 

“It was a brilliantly hot afternoon,” continued Malvolti, 
speaking very slowly; “ you will wonder that I tell you this; 
but it was the last time that I ever saw the sun. I remember 
the bright and burning pavements even in the narrow alleys 
out of which I turned into the long and dark entries and 
vaulted rooms. I followed some persons who entered before 


CHAP. XXXV. 3 


A ROMANCK 


3^?5 

me, and some voices which led me onward, into a long and lofty 
room in the upper stoiies, at the farther end of which, before 
a high window partially boarded up, some men were at play. 
As I came up the room, all the other parts of which lay in 
deep shadow, the light fell strongly upon a corner of the table, 
and upon the man who was casting the dice. He had just 
thrown his chance, and he turned his head as I came up. He 
appeared to be naked except his slippers and a cloak or blanket 
of white cloth, with pale yellow stripes. His hair was closely 
cropped; his face, whicli was pale and aquiline, was scarred 
and seamed with deep lines of guilt and misery, especially 
around the eyes, from which flashed a lurid light, and his lips 
were parted with a mocking and Satanic laugh. His dark and 
massive throat and chest and his long and sinewy arms forced 
their way out of the cloth with which he was wrapped, and the 
lean fingers of both hands, which crossed each other convulsively, 
>vere pointed exultantly to the deuce of ace which he had thrown. 
The last sight I ever saw, the last sight my eyes will ever 
behold until they open before the throne of God, was this 
demon-like figure, standing out clear and distinct against the 
shadowy gloom in which dim figures seemed to move, and the 
dice upon the table by his side. 

“He burst out into a wild and mocking laugh. ‘Ah, 
Malvolti,’ he said, ‘you were ever unlucky at the dice. Come 
and take yoiu* chances in the next main.’ 

“I know not what fury possessed me, nor why, at that 
moment especially, this man’s mocking villainy inspired me with 
such headlong rage. I remembered nothing but the crimes and 
wrongs which he had perpetrated. I drew the dagger I carried 
beneath my clothes, and sprang upon him with a cry as wild as 
his own. What happened I cannot tell. I seemed to hear 
the laughter of fiends, and to *feel the tortures of hell on every 
side. Then all was darkness and the grave.” 

Overpowered as it seemed by the recollection of his suffer¬ 
ings, the friar paused and sank upon his knees upon the pave¬ 
ment. The miserere had died away, and a profound gloom, 
broken only by the flicker of tapers, filled the Church. Ingle- 
sant was deeply moved,—less, however, by sympathy with the 
man’s story than by the consciousness of the emotions which he 
himself experienced. It was scarcely possible to believe that 
he was the same man w^ho, some short years before, had longed 


JOHN INGLESANT: 


[chap. XXXV. 


SGG 

for this meeting with a bloodthirsty desire that he might take 
some terrible vengeance upon his brother’s murderer. Now he 
stood before the same mimderer, -who not so long before had 
attempted to take his life also with perhaps the very dagger of 
which he now spoke; and as he looked down upon him, no 
feeling but that of pity was in his heart. In the presence of 
the awful visitant w^ho at that moment ivas filling the city 
which lay around them with death and corruption, and before 
w^hose eternal power the strife and enmity of man shrank away 
appalled and silenced, it was not wonderfiil that inordinate 
hate should cease; but, as he gazed upon the prostrate man 
before him, an awe-inspiring feeling took possession of Ingle- 
sant’s mind, which still more effectually crushed every sentiment 
of anger or revenge. The significance of his own half-conceived 
action was revealed to him, and he recognized, with something 
approaching to terror, that the cause was no longer his, that 
another hand had interposed to strike, and that his sword had 
spared the murderer of his brother only that he might become 
the victim of that divine vengeance which has said, “I will 
repay.’’ 

The fi'iar rose from his knees. “I found myself in the 
monastery of the Cappuccini on the bank of the river, blind, 
and holding life by the faintest thread. That I lived was a 
miracle. I had been struck with some twenty wounds, and in 
mere wantonness my eyes had been pierced as I lay apparently 
dead. I was thrown into the river ’which flowed by gloomy 
vaults beneath the houses, and had been carried down by the 
stream to the garden of a monastery where I was found. As I 
recovered strength the monks thought that my reason -would 
not survive. For days and nights I lay bound a ra-ving mad¬ 
man. At last, when my pains subsided, and my mind 'was a 
little calmed and subdued, I was sent out into the world and 
begged my way from village to -village, not caring where I went, 
my mind an utter blank, filled only now and then with honible 
sights and dreams. I had no sense of God or Christ; no feeling 
but a blind senseless despair and confusion. Thus I wandered 
on. I got at last a boy to lead me and buy me food. I know 
not -wdiy I did not rather lie down and die. Sometimes I did 
fling myself dowm, resolving not to move again; but some love 
of life or some divine prompting caused me to rise and wander 
on in my miserable path. At last, to-wards the end of the year, 


A ROIMANCE. 


397 


CHAP. XXXV.] 

I came to Rome, and wandered about the city seeking alms. 
The boy wdio led me, and who had attached himself to me, God 
know^s why, told me all he saw and all that passed; and I, who 
knew every phase and incident of Roman life, explained to him 
such things in a languid and indifferent way, for I found no 
pleasure nor relief in anything. I grew more and more miser¬ 
able ; our life was hard, and we were ill fed, and the terrors of 
my memory haunted my spirits, weakened and depressed for 
want of food. The forms of those whom I had wronged, nay, 
murdered, lay before me. They rose and looked upon me from 
every side. My misery was greater tlian I could bear. I 
desii’ed death and tried to accomplish it, but my hand always 
failed. I bought poison, but my boy watched me and changed 
the drink. I did not know this, and expected death. It did 
not come. Then suddenly, as I lay in a kind of trance, that 
morning in the mountain pass came into my remembrance, and 
it flashed suddenly into my mind that I was not my own ; that 
no poison could hurt me, no sword slay me ; that the sword of 
vengeance was in the Lord’s hand, and would work His will 
alone. What greater punishment could be in store for me I 
knew not, but stunned by this idea I ceased to strive and cry 
any more. I waited in silence for the final blow; it came. 
The year had come nearly to an end, and it was Christmas Eve. 
All day long, in the Churches in Rome, had the services, the 
processions, the religious shows, gone on. My boy and I had 
followed them one by one, and he had, in his boyish way, told 
me all that he saw. The new Pope went in procession to St. 
Giovani di Laterano, with all the Cardinals, Patriarchs, Arch¬ 
bishops, and Bishops, all the nobility and courtiers, and an 
interminable length of attendants, Switzers, soldiers, led horses, 
servants, pages, rich coaches, litters, and people of every class, 
under triumphal arches, with all excess of joy and triumph. 
As midnight drew on the streets were as light as day. Every 
pageant became more gorgeous, every service more sweet and 
ravishing, every sermon more passionate. I saw it all in my 
mind’s eye,—all, and much besides. I saw in every Church, 
lighted by sacred tapers before the crucifix, the pageants and 
c^emonies that, in every form and to every sense, present the 
story of the mystic birth, of that divine fact that alone can 
stay the longing which, since men walked the earth, they have 
uttered in every tongue, that the Deity would come down and 


SOS JOHN INGLESANT ; [cHAP. XXXV. 

dwell with man. We had wandered through all the Churches, 
and at last, wearied out, we reached the Capitol, and sank down 
beneath the balusters at the top of the marble stairs. Close 
by, in the Ara Coeli, the simple country people and the faithful 
whose hearts were as those of little children, kneeling as the 
shepherds knelt upon the plains of Bethlehem, saw the Christ- 
Child lying in a manger, marked out from common childhood by 
a mystic light which shone from His face and form; while the 
organ harmonies which filled the Chiurch resigned their wonted 
splendours, and bent for once to pastoral melodies, which, born 
amid the rustling of sedges by the river brink, have wandered 
down through the reed-music and festivals of the country people, 
till they grew to be the most fitting tones of a religion which 
takes its aptest similes from the vineyard and the flock. All 
over Rome the flicker of the bonfii'es mingled with the starlight. 
I was blind, yet I saw much that would have been hidden from 
me had I been able to see. I saw across the roofs before me, 
the dome of the Pantheon and St. Peter’s, and the long line of 
the Vatican, and the round outline of St. Angelo in the light 
of the waning moon. This I should have seen had I had my 
sight; but I saw behind me now what otherwise I should not 
have seen—the Forum, and the lines of arches and ruins, and 
beyond these the walks of the Aventine and of the Coelian, with 
their vineyards and white convents, and tall poplar and cypress 
trees. I saw beyond them the great Churches of the Lateran 
and Santa Croce in Gerusalemme, standing out from the green 
country, pale and spectral in the light. To the left I saw Santa 
Maria Maggiore, stately and gorgeous, facing the long streets of 
palaces and courts, and the gardens and terraces of the Quirinale, 
all distinct and clear in the mystic light. The white light 
covered the earth like a shroud, and over the vault of the sky 
were traced, by the pale stars, strange and obscure forms, as 
over the dome of St. Peter’s at evening when the Church is 
dim. A confused sound filled my ears, a sound of chanting and 
of praise for that advent that brought peace to men, a sound of 
innumerable passing feet, and in all the Churches and Basilicas 
I saw the dead Christs over the altars and the kneeling crowds 
around. Suddenly it seemed to me that I was conscious of a 
general movement and rush of feet, and that a strange and wild 
excitement prevailed in every region of Rome. The Churches 
became emptied, the people pouring out into the streets; the 


A ROMANCE. 


399 


CHAP. XXXV.] 

dead Christs above the altars faded from their crosses, and the 
sacred tapers went out of their own accord; for it spread through 
Rome, as in a moment, that a miracle had happened at the Ara 
Coeli, and that the living Christ was come. From where I 
stood I could see the throngs of people pouring through every 
street and lane, and thronging up to the Campidoglio and the 
stairs; and from the distance and the pale CainjDagna, and San 
Paolo without the walls, and from subterranean Rome, where 
the martyrs and confessors lie, I could see strange and mystic 
shapes come sweeping in through the brilliant light. 

“ He came down the steps of the Ara Coeli, and the sky was 
full of staiiike forms, wonderful and gracious ; and all the steps 
of the Capitol were full of peoi 3 le down to the square of the Ara 
Coeli, and up to the statue of Aurelius on horseback above; 
and the summit of the Capitol among the statues, and the leads 
of the palace Calfarelli, were full of eager forms, for the star¬ 
light was so clear that all might see; and the dead gods, and 
the fauns, and the satyrs, and the old pagans, that lurked in 
the secret hiding-places of the ruins of the Cjssars, crowded up 
the steps out of the Forum, and came round the outskirts of 
the crowd, and stood on the fallen pillars that they might see; 
and Castor and Pollux, that stood by their unsaddled horses 
at the top of the stairs, left them unheeded and came to see; 
and the Marsyas who stood bound broke his bonds and came to 
see; and spectral forms swept in from the distance in the light, 
and the air was full of Powers and Existences, and the earth 
rocked as at the Judgment Day. 

“ He came down the steps into the Campidoglio, and He 
came to me. He was not at all like the pictures of the saints; 
for He was pale, and worn, and thin, as though the fight was 
not yet half over—ah no !—but through this pale and worn 
look shone infinite power, and undying love, and unquenchable 
resolve. The crowd fell back on every side, but when He came 
to me He stopped. ‘Ah !’ he said, ‘is it thou? What doest 
thou here? Knowest thou not that thou art mine? Thrice 
irjine—mine centmies ago when I hung upon the cross on 
Calvary for such as thou—mine years ago, when thou earnest a 
little child to the font—mine once again, when, forfeit by every 
law, thou wast given over to me by one who is a servant and 
friend of mine. Surely, I will repay. ^ As He spoke, a shudder 
and a trembling ran through the crowd, aa if stirred by the 


400 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap. XXXV. 


breath of His voice. Nature seemed to rally and to grow 
beneath Him, and heaven to bend down to touch the earth. 
A healing sense of help and comfort, like the gentle dew, visited 
the weary heart. A great cry and shout rose from the crowd, 
and He passed on; but among ten thousand times ten thousand 
I should know Him, and amid the tumult of a universe I should 
hear the faintest whisper of His voice.” 

The friar stopped and looked at Inglesant with his darkened 
eyeballs, as though he could read his looks. Inglesant gazed 
at him in silence. That the man was crazed he had no doubt; 
but that his madness should have taken this particular form 
appeared to his listener scarcely less miraculous than if every 
word of his wonderful story had been true. 

“ Heard you nothing else he said at last. 

An expression of something like trouble passed over the 
other’s face. 

“No,” he said in a quieter voice; “by this time it was 
morning. The artillery of St. Angelo went off. His Holiness 
sang mass, and all day long was exposed the cradle of the 
Lord.” 

There was another pause which Inglesant scarcely knew 
how to break. Then he said,— 

“And have you heard nothing since of the Cavaliere'l” 

“ He is in this neighbourhood,” said Malvolti, “ but I have 
not found him. I wondered and was impatient, ignorant and 
foolish as I am; now I know the reason. The Lord waited 
till you came. How could he be found except by us both 1 
We must lose no time, or it will be too late. How did you 
know that he was here 1 ” 

Inglesant told him, 

“ It was the Lord’s doing,” said the friar, a light breaking 
over his darkened face. “ It was Capece. You remember, at 
Florence, the leader of that extravagant frolic of the Carnival, 
who was dressed as a corpse ? ” ^ 

“ I remember,” said Inglesant, “ and the poor English lad 
who was killed.” 

“He is one of the Lord’s servants,” continued-the friar, 
“ whom He called very late. I do not know that he was guilty 
of any particular sins, but he was the heir of a poor family, and 
lived for many years in luxury and excess. He was brought 
under the influence of Molinos’s party, and shortly after I had 



CHAP. XXXVI.] 


A ROMANCK 


401 


seen the Lord, he came to me to know whether he should 
become a religious. I told him I thought there was a time of 
trial and of sifting for the Lord’s people at hand, and that I 
thought the strongholds were the safest spots. He joined the 
order de Servi. Hot three weeks ago I was with him at 
Frescati, at the house of the Cappuccini, when I heard that 
the Cavaliere was here. You must have seen him three or four 
days afterwards.” 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

The night after Inglesant had met the friar in Naples there 
was “ the sound of abundance of rain,” and the “ plague was 
stayed.” As constantly happened in the cities desolated by 
this mysterious pestilence, no adequate reason could be per¬ 
ceived for its cessation. Some change in the state of the 
atmosphere took place, and the sick did not die, at least in the 
same proportion as formerly. This was the only indication 
that the most acute observer could detect; but the change was 
maiwellously rapid. The moment that contact with the dead 
bodies became less fatally infectious, help offered on all sides, 
tempted by the large rewards. The dead rapidly disappeared 
from sight, and the city began to resume something of its 
ordinary appearance. The terrors of the grave vanished into 
air, and gloomy resolutions faded from the mind. The few 
survivors of the devoted men who, throughout the heat of the 
conflict, had remained at tlieir posts, were, many of them at 
least, forgotten and overlooked; for their presence was an 
unpleasing reminder to those whose conduct had been of a far 
more prudent and selfish sort. Those who had fled returned 
into the city to look after their deserted homes, and to re-open 
their shops. The streets and markets were once more gay 
with w^ares. The friar was now as eager to leave Naples as he 
had -before been determined to remain. His sole object was to 
find the Cavaliere, and he constantly insisted that no time was 
to be lost if they wished to see him alive. They left Naples 
together; the friar mounted upon a mide which Inglesant piu- 
chased for him. 

Notwithstanding the friar’s eagerness, their journey was 
2 D 


402 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap. XXXVI. 


slow, for he was not able to resist the impulse to turn aside to 
help when any appearance of distiess or poverty called upon 
them for aid. Inglesant was not impatient at this delay, nor 
at the erratic and apj)arently meaningless course of their singu¬ 
lar journey. The country was delightful after the heavy rains, 
and seemed to rejoice, together with its inhabitants, at the 
abatement of the plague. People who had remained shut up 
in their houses in fear now appeared freely in the once deserted 
roads. Doors were thrown open, and the voice of the lute and 
of singing was heard again in the land. As for those who had 
passed away, it was wonderful how soon their name was for¬ 
gotten, as of “ a dead man out of mind;” and those who had 
come into comfortable inheritance of fruit-closes, and olive- 
grounds and vineyards, and of houses of pleasure in the fields, 
which, but for the pestilence, had never been theirs, soon found 
it possible to reconcile themselves to the absence of the dead. 

For some time after leaving Naples the road lay through a 
richly cultivated land, with long straight ditches on either side. 
Kows of forest trees crossed the country, and shaded the small 
closes of fruit-trees and vines. Here and there a wine tavern, 
or a few cottages, or a* village church, stopped them. At all 
of these the friar alighted from his mule, and made inquiries 
for any who were ill or in distress. In this way they came 
across a number of people of the peasant class, and heard the 
story of their lives; and now and then a religious, or a country 
signore, riding by on his mule or palfrey, stopped to speak with 
them. 

They had proceeded for many days through this cultivated 
country, and had at last, after many turnings, reached that part 
of tlie road which approaches the slopes of the Apennines about 
Frosinone. The path wound among the hills, the slopes covered 
witli chestnut trees, and the crags crovmed with the remains of 
Gothic castles. Fields of maize filled the valleys, and lines of 
lofty poplars crossed the yellow corn. As the road ascended, 
distant reaches of forest and campagna lay in bright sunlight 
between the craggy rocks, and down the wooded glens cascades 
fell into rapid streams spanned here and there by a half-ruined 
bridge. At last they entered a deep ravine of volcanic tufa, 
much of which cropped out from the surface, cold and bare. 
Detween these sterile rocks laurels forced their way, and spread 
out their broad and brilliant leaves. Creepii-g plants hung in 


CHAP, xxxvr.] 


A ROMANCE. 


403 


long and waving festoons, and pines and forest trees of great 
size crowned the summits. Here and there sepulchral excava¬ 
tions were cut in the rock, and more than one sarcophagus, 
carved with figures in relief, stood by the wayside. 

The air in these ravines was close and hot, and sulphurous 
streams emitted an unpleasant odour as they rode along. 
Inglesant felt oppressed and ill. The valley of the Shadow of 
Death, out of winch he had come into the cool pastures and 
olive-yards, had left upon the mind an exaltation of feeling 
rather than terror: and in the history of the friar, through the 
course of which traces of a devised plan penetrated the confusion 
of a disordered brain, the gracious prediction of Molinos seemed 
to promise fulfilment. The supreme effort of Divine mercy 
surely is that which shapes the faltering and unconscious actions 
of man into a beneficent and everlasting work. 

But the very clearness and calm of this transcendental air 
produced a wavering of the spiritual sense; and the companion¬ 
ship of a blind enthusiast, who, from the lowest depth of reck¬ 
less sin, had suddenly attained a height of religious fervour, 
did not tend to reduce the fever of his thoughts. The scenes 
and forms of death with which he had been familiar in Naples 
returned again and again before his eyes, and his old disease 
again tormented him; so that once more he saw strange figures 
and shapes walking by the wayside. These images of a 
disordered fancy jostled and confused his spiritual perceptions. 
He felt wearied by those thoughts and desires which had 
formerly been dear to him, and the ceaseless reiteration of the 
friar’s enthusiastic conceptions jarred and irritated him more 
than he liked to confess. The brain of the blind man, un¬ 
occupied by the sights of this world, was full of visions of a 
mystic existence, blended and confused with such incidents and 
stories of earth as he had heard along the way. With such 
phantasmal imaginations he filled Inglesant’s ears. 

Proceeding in this manner, they came to a place where the 
ravine, opening out a httle, exposed a distant view of the 
Campagna, with its aqueducts and ruined tombs. At the 
opening of the valley stood one of those isolated rocks so strange 
to English eyes, yet so frequently seen in the paintings of the 
old masters, crowned with the ruins of a Temple, and fringed 
with trees of delicate foliage, poplars and pines. At the foot 
of the rock an arch of ruined brickwork, covered with waving 


404 


JOHN inglesant; 


[chap. XXXVI. 


grass and creepers, spanned the road with a wide sweep, and 
on the opposite side a black suli)hurous pool exhal(;d a constant 
vapour. Masses of strange, nameless masoniy, of an antiquity 
dateless and undefined, bedded themselves in the rocks, or over¬ 
hung the clefts of the hills; and out of a great tomb by the 
wayside, near the arch, a forest of laurel forced its way, amid 
delicate and gracefid frieze-work, moss-covered and stained with 
age. 

In this strangely desolate and ruinous spot, where the 
fantastic shapes of nature seem to mourn in weird fellowship 
with the shattered strength and beauty of the old Pagan art- 
life, there appeared unexpectedly signs of modern dwelling. 
The base of the precipitous rock for some distance above the 
road was concealed by a steep bank of earth, the crumbling ruin 
and dust of man and of his work. At the top of this bank was 
one of those squalid erections, so common in Italy, where, upon 
a massive wall of old brickwork, embedded in the soil, a roof of 
straw affords some kind of miserable shelter. Some attempt 
had been made to wall in the sj)ace covered by this roof, and a 
small cross, reared from the gable, and a bell beneath a pent¬ 
house of wood, seemed to show that the, shed had been used 
for some ecclesiastical piu'pose. At the bottom of the slope 
upon which this structure was placed, and on. the other side of 
the ruined arch and of the road, there stood, near to the tomb, 
a very small hut, also thatched, and declared to be a tavern by 
its wine-bush. At the door of this hut, as Inglesant and the 
friar rode up, stood a man in a peasant’s dress, in an attitude 
of perplexity and nervous dread. A long streak of light from 
the western sun penetrated the ruined arch, and shone upon the 
winding road, and, against the blaze of light, rock and arch 
and hanging woods stood out dark and lowering in the deli¬ 
cate air. 

The dazzling light, the close atmosphere of the valley, and 
the fumes of the sulphurous lake, affected Inglesant’s brain so 
much that he could scarcely see; but they did not appear to 
disturb the fiiar. He addressed the man as they came up, and 
understanding more from his own instinct than from the few 
words that Inglesant spoke that the man was in trouble, he 
said,— 

“You seem in some perplexity, my son. Confide in me, 
that I may help you.” 


CJHAP. XXXVI.] A llOMANCE. 405 

As the man hesitated to reply, Inglesaut said, “What is 
that building on the hillf’ 

“It is a house for lepers,” said the peasant. 

“Are you the master of this tavern ?” said Inglesant. 

“ No, Santa Madre,” replied the man. “ The mistress of 
the inn has tied. This is the case, Padre,” he continued, turn¬ 
ing to the friar. “ I was hired a ’week or so ago at Ariano to 
bring a diseased man here, who was a leper; but I did not 
know that he was a leper who was stricken with the plague. 
I brought him in my cart, and a terrible journey I had with 
him. When I had brought him here, and the plague manifestly 
appeared upon him, all the lepers fled, and forsook the place. 
The Padrona, who kept this tavern upon such custom as the 
peasants who brought food to sell to the lepers brought her, 
also fled. I stayed a day or two to help the wretched man— 
they told me that he was a gentleman—till I could stay no 
longer, such was his condition, and I fled. But, my Father, I 
have a tender heart, and I came back to-daj'’, thinking that the 
holy Virgin would never help me if I left a wretched man to 
die alone—I, who onlj* know where and in what state he is. 
I spoke to one or two friars to come and help me, but they 
excused themselves. I came alone. But when I arrived here 
my courage failed me, and I dared not go up. I know the 
state he was in two days ago; he must be much more terrible 
to look at now. Signore,” .concluded the man, turning to 
Inglesant with an imploring gesture, “ I dare not go up.” 

“Do you know this man’s name?” said Inglesant. 

“Yes; they told me his name.” 

“ What is it ?” 

“ II Cavaliere di Guardino.” 

At the name of his wife’s brother, Inglesant started, and 
would have dismounted, but checked liimself in the stirrup, 
sti'uck by the action of the friar. -He had thrown his arms 
above his liead with a gesture of violent excitement, his sight¬ 
less eyeballs extended, liis face lighted with an expression of 
rapturous astonishment and delight. 

“Who?” he exclaimed. “Who sayest thou? Guardino 
a leper, and stricken with the plague! Deserted and helpless, 
is he ? too terribly disfigured to be looked upon? The lepers 
flee him, sayest thou? Holy and! blessed Lord Jesus, this is 
Thy work ! He is my mortal foe—the ravisher of iny sister— 


JOHN INGLESANT ; 


406 


[chap, xxxvr. 


the destroyer of my own sight! Let me go to him ! I will 
mmister to him—I will tend him ! Let me go !” 

He dismounted from his mule, and, with the wonderful 
instinct he seemed to possess, turned towards the rock, and 
began to scramble up the hill, blindly and with difficulty, it is 
true, but still with sufficient correctness to have reached the 
ruin without help. There was, to Inglesant, something inex¬ 
pressibly touching and pitiful in his hurried and excited action, 
and his struggling determination to accomplish the ascent. 

The peasant would have overtaken him to prevent his going 
up, probably misdoubting his intention. Inglesant checked 
him. 

“ Do not stop him,” he said. “ He is a holy man, and will 
do what he says. I will go with him. Stay here with my 
horse.” 

“ You do not know to what you are going, signore,” said 
the peasant, looking at Inglesant with a shudder; “ let him go 
alone. He cannot see” 

Inglesant shook his head, and, his brain still slightly dizzy 
and confused, hastened after the friar, and assisted him to climb 
the rocky bank. When they had readied the entrance to the 
hut the friar went hastily in, Inglesant following him to the 
doorway. 

It was a miserable place, and nearly empty, the lepers having 
carried off most of their possessions with them. On a bed of 
straw on the farther side, beneath the rock, lay what Ingle¬ 
sant felt to be the man of whom he was in search. What he 
saw it is impossible to describe here. The leprosy and the 
plague combined had produced a spectacle of inexpressible 
loathing and horror, such as nothing but absolute duty would 
justify the description of. The corruption of disease made it 
scarcely possible to recognize even the human form. The 
poisoned air of the shed was such that a man could scarcely 
breathe it and live. 

The wretched man was rolling on his couch, crying out at 
intervals, groaning and uttering oatlis and curses. Without 
the slightest faltering the friar crossed the room (it is true he 
could not see), and kneeling by the bedside, winch he found at 
once, he began, in low and hurried accents, to pour into the ear 
of the dying man the consoling sound of that Name, which 
alone, uttered under heaven, has power to reach the departing 


CI/AP. XXXVI.] 


A ROMANCE. 


407 


soul, distracted to all beside. Startled by the sound of a voi(;e 
clo.-e to his ear, for his sight also was gone, the sick man ceased 
his outcries and lay still. 

Never ceasing for a moment, the friar continued, in a rapid 
and fervent whisper, to pour into his ear the tenderness of 
Jesus to the vilest sinner, the eternal love that will reign 
hereafter, the sweetness -and peace of the heavenly life. The 
wretched man lay perfectly still, probably not knoAving whether 
this wonderful voice was of earth or heaven; and Inglesant, 
his senses confused by the horrors of the room, knelt in prayer 
in the entrance of the hut. 

The fatal atmosphere of the room became more and more 
dense. The voice of the friar died slowly away ; his form, 
bending lower over tlie bed, faded out of sight: and there 
passed across Inglesant’s bewildered brain the vision of Another 
wdio stood beside the dying man. The halo round His head 
lighted all the hovel, so that the seamless coat He wore, and 
the marks upon His hands and feet, were plainly seen, and the 
pale alluring face Avas turned not so much upon the bed and 
upon the monk as upon Inglesant himself, and the unspeakable 
glance of the Divine eyes met his. 

A thrill of ecstasy, terrible to the w^eakened system as the 
sharpest pain, together Avith the hital miasma of the place, 
made a final rush and grasp upon his already reeling faculties, 
and he lost all consciousness, and fell senseless Avithin the 
threshold of the room. 

When he came to himself he had been dragged out of the 
hut by the peasant, Avho had ventured at last to ascend the hill. 
The place Avas silent ; the Cavaliere AA^as dead, and the friar lay 
across the body in a sort of trance. They brought him out and 
laid him on the grass, thinking for some time that he was dead 
also. By and by he opened his sightless eyes, and asked where 
he AA’as; but he still moved as in a trance. He seemed to liaA'O 
forgotten Avhat had happened; and, Avith the death of the 
Cavaliere, the great motive which had influenced him, and 
Aviiich, Avliile it lasted, seemed to have kept his reason from 
utterly losing its balance, appeared to be taken aAA^ay. He had 
lived oi]ly to meet and bless his enemy, and this having been 
accomplished, all reason for living Avas gone. 

Inglesant and the peasant dug a grave Avith some imple¬ 
ments they found in the tavern, and hastily buried the body, 


408 


JOHN INGLESANT ; 


[chap. XXXVII. 


the friar pronouncing a benediction. The latter performed this 
office inechauically, and seemed almost unconscious as to what 
was passing. His very figure and shape apj^eared changed, and 
presented but the shadow of his former self; his speech was 
broken and unintelligible. Inglesant gave the peasant money, 
which seemed to him to be wealth, and they mounted and rode 
silently away. 

At Venafro, where they found a monastery of the Cappuc- 
cini, they stayed some days, Inglesant expecting that his com¬ 
panion would recover something of Ids former state of health. 
But it soon became apparent that this would not be the case; 
the friar sank rapidly into a condition of mental unconscious¬ 
ness, and the physicians told Inglesant that although he might 
linger for weeks, they believed that a disease of the brain was 
liastening him towards the grave. Inglesant was impatient to 
return to the Gastello; and, leaving the friar to the care of the 
brothers of his own order, he resumed his journe3\ 

Was it a strange coincidence, or the omniscient rule and 
will of God, that, at the moment Inglesant lay insensible before 
the hut, the plague had done its Avork in the home that he had 
left ? The old Count died first, then some half of the servants, 
finall}^, in the deserted house, a little child lay dead upon its 
couch, and beside it, on the marble floor, lay Lauretta—dead 
—uncared for. 

It was the opinion of Martin Luther that vision !^of the 
Saviour, which he himself had seen, were delusions of Satan for 
the bewildering of the Papists ; and there is a story of a monk 
who left the Beatific Vision that he might take his service in 
the choir. 

]\Ialvolti died at Venafro a short time after Inglesant had 
left him. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

Aftee the narration of the events just detailed the papers from 
which the life of Mr. Inglesant has hitherto been compiled 
become much less minute and personal in character; and when 
the narrative is resumed, a considerable period of time has evi¬ 
dently elapsed. It is stated that some time after the death of 
his wife Mr. Inglesant returned to Rome, and assumed a novice’s 


CHAP. XXXVII.] 


A ROMANCE. 


409 


gown in some religious order, but to which of the religious 
bodies he attached himself is doubtful. It might be thought 
that he would naturally become a member of the Society of 
Jesus; but there is reason to conclude that the rule which he 
intended to embrace was either that of the Benedictines or 
the Carmelites. As will soon appear, he proceeded no farther 
than the noviciate, and this uncertainty therefore is of little 
consequence. 

It must be supposed that the distress caused by the death 
of his wife and child, and by his absence from them at the last, 
was one motive which caused Inglesant to seek in Rome spiritual 
comfort and companionship from the Spanish priest Molinos, in 
whose society he had before found so much support and relief. 
It was thought, indeed, by many beside Inglesant, amid the 
excitement which the spread of the method of devotion taught 
by this man had caused, that a dawn of purer light w’’as break¬ 
ing over spiritual Rome. God seemed to have revealed Himself 
to thousands in such a fashion as to make their past lives and 
worship seem profitless and unfruitful before the brightness and 
peace that was revealed; and the lords of His heritage seemed 
for a.time to be willing that this light should shine. It ap¬ 
peared for a moment as if Christendom were about to throw off 
its shackles, its infant swaddling clothes, in which it had been 
so long wrapped, and, acknowledging that the childhood of the 
Church was past, stand forth before God with her children 
around her, no longer distrusted and enslaved, but each indi¬ 
vidually complete, fellow-citizens with their mother of tiie 
household of God. The unsatisfactory rotation of formal peni¬ 
tence and sinful lapse, of w’earisorae devotion and stale pleasures, 
had given place to an enthusiasm wdiich believed that, instead 
of ceremonies and bowing in outer courts, the soul was intro¬ 
duced into heavenly places, and saw God fiice to face. A 
wonderful experience, in exchange for lifeless formality and rule, 
of communion wdth the Lord, with nothing before the believer, 
as he knelt at the altar, save the Lord Himself, day by day, 
unshackled by penance and confession as heretofore. Thousands 
of the best natures in Rome attached themselves to this method; 
it was approved by a Jesuit Father, the Pope was known to 
countenance it, and his nephews were among its followers. The 
bishops were mostly in favour of it, and in the nunneries of 
Rome the directors and confessors were preaching it j and the 


410 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap. XXXVII. 


mills, instead of passing tlieir time over tlieir beads and 
“ Hours,” were much alone, engaged in the exercise of mental 
prayer. 

It would indeed be difficult to estimate the change that 
would have passed over Europe if this one rule of necessary 
confession before every communion had been relaxed ; and iu 
the hope that some increased freedom of religious thought would 
be secured, many adopted the new method who had no great 
attachment to the doctrine, nor to the undoubted extravagances 
which the Quietists, in common with other mystics, were occa¬ 
sionally guilty of, both in Avord and deed. It cannot be denied, 
and it is the plea that will be urged iu defence of the action of 
the Jesuits, that freedom of thouglit as well as of devotion was 
the motive of numbers who followed the teaching of I\Iolinos. 
That free speculation and individual growth could be combined 
with loyalty to acts and ceremonies, hallowed by centuries of 
recollection and of past devotion, was a prospect sufficiently 
attractive to many select natures. Some, no doubt, entered 
into this cause from less exalted motives—a love of ffime, and 
a desire to form a party, and to be at the head of a number of 
folloAvers; but even among those whose intentions Avere not so 
lofty and spiritual as those of Molinos probably Avere, by far 
the greater number Avere actuated by a desire to promote free¬ 
dom of thought and of Avorship among Churchmen. 

But it w'as only for a moment that this bright prospect 
opened to the Church. 

The Jesuits and Benedictines began to be alaraied. Molinos 
had endeavoured to allay the suspicion attached to his teaching, 
and diminish the aversion that the Jesuits felt toAvards him, 
by calling his book “ The Spiritual Guide,” and by constantly 
enjoining the necessity of being in all things under the direction 
of a religious person; but this Avas felt to point more at the 
submission to general council than to coming ahvays to the 
priest, as to the minister of the sacrament of penance, before 
every communion; especially as Molinos taught that the only 
necessary qualification for receiving Avas the being free from 
mortal sin. 

Suddenly, AAdien the reputation of this new society appeared 
to be at its height, Molinos Avas arrested, and Father Esparsa, 
the Jesuit AAdiose api)robation had appeared before “The 
Spiritual Guide,” disappeared. What became of the latter was 


CHAP. XXXVII.] A ROMANCE. 411 

not known, but it was generally supposed that he was “ shut 
up between four walls ; ” and at any rate he appeared no more 
in Rome. In the midst of the excitement consequent on these 
events seventy more persons, all of the highest rank,—Count 
Vespiriani and his lady, the Confessor of Prince Borgliese, 
Father Appiani of the Jesuits, and others equally well known, 
—were arrested in one day, and before the month was over 
more than two hundred persons crowded the prisons of the 
Inquisition. 

The consternation was excessive, when a method of devo¬ 
tion which had been extolled throughout Italy for the highest 
sanctity to which mortals could aspire was suddenly found to 
be heretical, and the chief promoters of it hurried from their 
homes and from their friends, shut up in prison, and in peril 
of perpetual confinement, if not death. The arrest of Father 
Appiani was the most surprising. He was accounted the most 
learned priest in the Roman College, and was aiTested on a 
Sunday in April as he came from preaching. After this no 
one could guess on whom the blow would fall next. The Pope 
himself, it was reported, had been examined by the Jesuits. 
The imminence of the peril brought strength with it. The 
prisoners, it was whispered, were steady and resolute, and 
showed more learning than their examiners. Their friends 
who were still at large, recovering from their first panic, as- 
siuned a bold front. Many letters were 'wiitten to the Inquisi¬ 
tors, advising them to consider well what they did to their 
prisoners, and assuring them that tlieir interests would be 
maintained even at the cost of life. Nor did these protests 
end here. As soon as possible after the arrests a meeting was 
held at Don Agostino’s palace in the Piazza Colonna, to which 
ladies were summoned as well as men. There, in a magnificent 
saloon, amid gilding and painting and tapestry, whose splendour 
was subdued by softened colour and shaded light, were met the 
dlite of Rome. There were ladies in rich attire, yet in whose 
countenances was seen that refinement of beauty which only 
religion and a holy life can give—ladies, who, while appearing 
in public in the rMiik whicli belonged to them, were capable in 
private of every self-denial, trained in the practice of devotion 
and acts of merc3^ There were nuns of the Conception and 
of the Palestrina, distressed and mortified at being compelled 
to retiun to their beads and to their other abandoned forms. 


* 412 JOHN INGLES ANT; [cHAP. XXXYII. 

There were present Cereri, Cardinal-Bishop of Como ; Cardirals 
Carpegna and Cigolini, and Cardinal Howard of England (the 
noblest and most spiritually - minded of the Sacred College), 
Absolini and Colored, Cardinals and Fathers of the Oratory, 
and Cardinal D’Estrdes. Petrucci himself, the most prominent 
advocate of the Quietist doctrine, was in the room, though in¬ 
cognito, it not being generally known that he was in Kome. 
There were present many Fathers of the Oratory, men of 
intellect, refinement, and blameless lives; Don Livio, Duke di 
Ceri, the Pope’s nephew, was there, and the Prince Savelli, 
many of the highest nobility, and above a himdred gentlemen, 
all of wdiom, by their presence, might be supposed to prove 
their attachment to the teaching of Molinos, their superiority 
to the sordid motives of v-mrldly prudence and pleasure, and 
their devotion to spiritual instincts and desires. It would be 
difficult to imagine scenes more unlike each other; yet, strange 
as it may appear, it was nevertheless true that this brilliant 
company, attired in the height of the existing mode, sparkling 
with jewels and enriched with chastened colour, might not 
unfitly be considered the successor of those hidden meetings of 
a few slaves in Nero’s household, who first, in that wonderful 
city, believed in the crucified Nazarene. 

The addresses were commenced by the Duke di Ceri, who 
spoke of the grief caused by the arrest of their friends, and of 
the exertions that had been made on their behalf He was 
followed by other of the great nobles and cardinals, who all 
spoke in the same strain. All these speeches were delivered 
ill somewhat vague and guarded terms, and as one after another 
of the speakers sat dowui, a sense of incompleteness and dis¬ 
satisfaction seemed to steal over the assembly, as though it 
were disappointed of something it most longed to hear. The 
meeting was assimed, over and' over again, that extreme 
measures would not be taken against those in prison; that 

• their high rank and powerful connections would save them ; 
the Duke di Ceri had expressly said that he believed his 
relation and servant. Count Vespiriani, and his lady, would 
soon be released. The fact was, though the Duke did not 
choose to state it publicly, that they had been proscribed solely 
from information gained at the confessional; and this having 
been much talked of, the Jesuits had resolved, rather than 
bring any further odium on the sacrament of confession, to 


CHAP. XXXVII.] 


A ROMANCE. 


41.3 


discharge both the lady and her husband at once. But, though 
all this might be true, there was something that remained 
unsaid—something that was filling all hearts. 

What was to be the spiritual future of those assembled ? 
Was this gate of Paradise and the Divine life to be for ever 
closed, and was earth and all its littleness once more to be 
pressed upon them without denial, and hypocrisy and the petty 
details of a formal service once more to be the only spiritual 
food of their souls 1 Must they, if they resolved to escape this 
spiritual death, quit this land and this glorious Church, and 
seek, in cold and distant lands, and alien Churches, the freedom 
denied by the tyranny of the leaders of their owni These 
thoughts filled all minds, and yet none had given them utter¬ 
ance, nor was it surprising that it should be so. Select and 
splendid as that assembly was, no one knew for certain that his 
neighboirr was not a spy. As was known soon after. Cardinal 
D’Estr^es, who sat there so calm and lofty-looking, furnished 
the principal evidence against Molinos, swearing that, being his 
intimate friend, he knew that the real meaning of his friend’s 
printed words was that heretical one of which, in fact, Molinos 
had never dreamt. It "was no wonder that the speeches were 
cautious and vague. 

At last Don Agostino rose, and in a quiet and unaffected 
tone requested a hearing for his very dear friend, the Cavaliere 
di San Georgio, one well known to most of them, whose char¬ 
acter was known to all. 

A murmur of satisfaction ran through the room, and the 
audience settled itself down to listen, as though they knew that 
the real business of the day was about to begin. Inglesant rose 
in his seat immediately behind his host. He was evidently 
dressed carefully, with a view to the effect to be produced upon 
a fastidious and ultra-refined assembly. He wore a cassock of 
silk, and the gown of a Benedictine made of the finest cloth. 
His head was tonsured and his hair cut short. He had round 
his neck a band of fine cambric, and at his wrists ruffles of rich 
lace; and he wore on his hand a diamond of great value. He 
had, indeed, to one who saw his dress and not his face, entirely 
the look of a petit-maitre, and even—what is more contemptible 

still_of a petit-maitre priest; yet, as he rose in his seat,^ there 

was not a man in all that assembly who would have dveu a 
•’ilver scudo for the chances of his life 


414 


JOHN inglesant; 


[chap. XXXVII. 


His romantic and melancholy story, the death of his wife 
and child, his assumption of the religious life, and above all, his 
friendship with Mblinos, were known to all; it seemed to many 
a fitting close to a life of such vicissitude, that at this crisis he 
should sacrifice himself in the spiritual cause that was dear to 
all 

He had his speech written before him, every word carefully 
considered and arranged by himself and some of the first masters 
of style then in Rome. He began deliberately and distinctly, 
so that every word was heard, though he spoke in a low voice. 

After deprecating the judgment of the assembly upon the 
artless and unpolished words he was about to address to it, and 
excusing his rashness in consenting to speak in such an assembly 
at all, he said,— 

“ The words of the noble and august personages who have 
already spoken have left me little to say. Nothing is necessary 
to be added to their wise and reverend advice. All that remains 
for us to do is to attempt to carry out in action what they have 
so well counselled. Ollt first object, our first duty, is the safety 
of our friends. But, when this is happily accomplished—as, 
under such leaders and protected by such names, how can we 
doubt that it will be 'I —there are many among us who, with 
sinking hearts and hushed voices, are inquiring, ‘What will 
come next f ” 

He paused, and looked up for a moment, and a murmur of 
encouragement ran through the room. 

“ I am not mistaken when I say that in this room, and also 
in Rome, are many hearts which, within the last few years, and 
by the teaching of him for whom night and day the prayers of 
the Church ascend to heaven, have found a peace and a blessed¬ 
ness before unknown; many who have breathed celestial air, 
and walked the streets of God. Nor am I mistaken—my heart 
and yom* presence tell me I am not mistaken—when I say that 
many are asking themselves, ‘How can they renounce this 
heavenly birthright 1 How can they live without this Divine 
intercomrse which they have found so sweet—which the purest 
saints have hallowed with their approval ] How can they live 
without God who have seen Him face to face V And many are 
asking themselves, ‘ Must we leave the walks of men, and the 
Chm*ches where the saints repose, and wander into the wilder¬ 
ness—into byways among the wild places of heresy, since the 


CHAP. XXXVII.] 


A ROMANCE. 


415 


Church seems to close the gates upon this way which is their 
life V I risk the deserved censm'e of this august assembly when 
I venture to advise—yet even this I am willing to do, if I may 
serve any—and I venture to advise, No. I myself was born 
in another country, amid contending forms of faith. I believe 
that, in the sacrificial worship of our most Holy Church, room 
is amply given for the perfection of the Contemplative State; 
and that such lofty devotion can find no fitter scene than the 
altar of the Lord. As we may hope that, at some future time, 
the whole Churcli, may come to this holy state, and be raised 
above many things which, though now perhaps necessary, may 
in a higher condition fall away; so, if by our continuing in this 
posture we may hasten such a happy time, this doubtless will 
be the path Heaven wishes us to walk in. But —he paused, 
and the whole assembly listened with breathless attention—“ if 
such is to be our course, it is evident that an understanding is 
necessary of adjustment between ourselves and the Fathers of 
the Holy Office and of the Society of Jesus—an adjustment by 
which a silence must be allowed our Faith—a silence which, fur 
the sake of those amongst us whose consciences are the most 
refined and heaven-taught, must be understood to imply dissent 
to much that has lately been acted and taught. We must 
understand that this exertion of authority is aimed only at the 
02:>en teaching of doctrines in which we still believe, and which 
are still dear to us ; and that liberty is allowed our faith so long 
as we observe a discreet silence—a liberty which shall extend 
as far as to admission to the Sacrament without previous con¬ 
fession. On this point surely it is necessary that we have a 
clearer understanding.” 

Inglesant stopped, and applause, sufficiently loud and unmis¬ 
takably sincere, showed that a large proportion of the assembly 
approved of what had been said. 

He spoke a word to Don Agostino, and then went on,— 

“ I am willing to confess, and this august assembly will be 
willing to confess, that to the rulers of Christ’s ark—those who 
have to answer for the guidance of the peoples of the world, 
and who know far better than we can the difficulties and 
dangers which environ such a task—this allowance to the 
lower masses of the people, so prone to run to extremes and 
to err in excess, would seem unwise; and I am not unwilling 
also to admit that we may have erred in making this way too 


416 . JOHN INGLES ANT; [cnAP. xxxvil. 

public, before the world was sufficiently prepared for it. Both 
for this, and for any other fault, we are willing to suffer penance, 
and to submit to the Holy Church in silence; but, this acknow¬ 
ledged and performed, we must be allowed, within certain limits, 
to retain the freedom we have enjoyed, ami some mauifesb 
token must be given us that such will be the case.” 

A singular murmur again filled the room—a murmur com¬ 
pounded of intense sympathy and of admiration at the boldness 
of the speaker. 

luglesant went on. 

“But you will ask me, how is this to be obtained ? I am 
allowed to say that I have not undertaken the mission save at 
the request of others whom it well becomes to direct my service 
in all things. They consider that for some reason I am fitted 
for the task. I am—and I speak with all gratitude—a pupil 
of the reverend and holy Society of Jesus, and whatever I 
possess I owe to its nursing care. I am besides, though I have 
never acted in such capacity, still an accredited agent of the 
Queen Mother of England, that most faithful daughter—I had 
almost said Martyr—of the Church. I will see the General of 
the Order, and if this assembly will allow me to speak in its 
name, I will offer to him our dutiful submission if he, on his 
part, will give us some public sign that we are allowed our 
])rivate interpretation upon the late events, and our liberty upon 
the ix)int which I have named.” 

When Inglesant sat down Cardinal Howard spoke. He was 
followed by several others, all of whom complimented the 
Cavaliere upon his devotion to so good a cause, but abstained 
from expressing any decided opinion on the expediency of his 
proposal. . But when two or three speeches had been made, 
the mixed character of the assembly began to show itself. It 
is true that it had been carefully selected, yet, in order to 
give it importance and influence, it had been necessary to in¬ 
clude in the invitations as many as possible, and the result was 
soon apparent. There were many present who had joined the 
ranks of the Quietists more from a weariness of the existing 
order than from sincere devotion. There were many present 
who had joined them sincerely, but who, from timidity and 
caution, were desirous to escape the anger of the Inquisition by 
submission and silence, and who deprecated any risk of exciting 
a still more harsh exertion of authority. Both these pai'ties, 


A ROMANCE. 


417 


CHAP. XXXVII.] 

increased by waverers from the more devoted portion of the 
company, united in advising that no action should be taken, 
farther than that which had been already used, and which, it 
might be hoped, had secured the principal object of their wishes, 
the release of their friends. 

They argued that confession before each communion could 
not be burdensome to those who were in a state of grace, and 
therefore had nothing to confess; and even if it were, as the 
Fathers of the Church judged it necessary for the suppression of 
error, and for the good of the ignorant and unenlightened, it ought 
to be submitted to most willingly by those farthest advanced in 
the spiritual life. These-speakers also argued that many things 
which were held by the Quietists harmlessly to themselves were 
liable to be misunderstood, and that anything which tended to 
draw off the mind from the mystery of the Sacrifice of the 
Mass, or from the examples of the saints, tended to divert the 
vulgar from devotion to the Saviour, and savoured of Deism. 

They argued that although perhaps many things were 
unnecessary to those whose religious life was far advanced, such 
as the breviary, beads, images, many prayers, etc., yet it was 
not so to others, and that no doubt, where it was suitable, 
relaxation would be easily obtained from one’s director. No 
one had insisted more upon the necessity of a spiritual guide 
than had Molinos, and it was now the time to prove the reality 
of our obedience to the voice of the Church. 

It was argued that many things in Molinos’s writings seemed 
to tend towards Calvinism, and the doctrine of Efficacious 
Grace, wdiich no one present—no true child of the Church— 
could defend,—a doctrine which limited the Grace of God, and 
turned the free and wide pastures of Catholicism into the narrow 
bounds of a restricted sect; and it was finally hinted that there 
was some reason to believe that the promoters of the meeting 
were acting with a farther intention than at first appeared, and 
that they desii’ed to introduce changes into the Catholic faith 
and discipline, under cover of this discussion. 

This last insinuation w*as a home thrust, and was so felt by 
the meeting. The subject of Efficacious Grace had also been 
introduced”very skilfully by a young priest, a pupil of the 
Jesuits himself. 

After a brief consultation with his party Inglesant replied 
that a great deal of what had been advanced was uiianswer- 

2 E 


418 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap. XXXVII, 


able; that lie himself, a pupil of the Jesuits, was as much 
opposed to the doctrine of Efficacious Grace as any one could 
be; that it was the intention of no one present to urge any 
course of action unless the meeting unanimously approved of it; 
and that, as it appeared that the majority of those present were 
prepared to submit to the Holy Office, and did not desire any 
negotiation, nothing farther would be attempted. 

There weighed, in truth, upon the hearts of all, and had 
probably oppressed Inglesant as he spoke, a sense of hopeless¬ 
ness and of contention with an iiTesistible power. In spite of 
this feeling, however, the decision of the chiefs drew forth 
expressions of impatience and regret from the more enthusiastic 
partizans; but as these were mostly women, who could not 
address the assembly, or such as were not prepared to make 
themselves prominent in face of almost certain arrest, the dis¬ 
cussion became desultory and ineffectual, and the meeting finally 
broke up without any decision having been arrived at. 

The Piazza was fiill of carriages and servants, and the Duke 
di Ceri had an enormous train of equipages following his 
carriage to escort him beyond the gate, on the way to his villa 
near Civita Vecchia, whither he returned immediately, not 
choosing to stay in Rome. 

The meeting being over, Don Agostino urged Inglesant to 
leave Rome; indeed, the Duke had already pressed him to 
accompany him to Civita Vecchia, but Inglesant declined. 

The motives Avhich influenced him were of a mixed nature. 
He was prompted by the most sincere desire to find out a way 
both for himself and for otliers,Jn which the highest spiritual 
walk, and the purest condition of spiritual worship, might be 
possible within the Church of Rome. There -was probably 
nothing in this world which he desired more than this, for in 
this was included that still more important freedom, the liberty 
of the reason ; for if it were possible for the spirit to be free, 
while fulfilling the outward observances, and participating in 
the outward ordinances of the Church, so also it must be pos¬ 
sible for the reason to be free too. 

It had been this very desire, singular as it may seem, which 
had attached him to the Society of the Jesuits. Hot only w^ere 
their tenets—notably that of sufficient grace given to all men 
—of wider and more catholic nature than the Augustinian 
doctrines held by most bodies both of Churchmen and Protes- 



CHAP. XXXVII.] 


A ROMANCE. 


419 


tants, but the Society had always, in all its dealings with men, 
showm a notable leaning to tolerance, even, so its enemies 
asserted, of sin and vice. 

But besides these motives which had something of a re¬ 
fined and noble character, Inglesaut had others. A life of 
intrigue and policy had, from training and severe practice, 
become a passion and necessity of his life. To leave the field 
where such a fight was going on, to remain in Rome, even, an 
inactive spectator, allowed to pursue his own path merely from 
the ignoble fact that he was not worth arrest—both these 
courses of action w'ere intolerable to him. He had promised 
Molinos that he would not be wanting in the hour of trial, and 
he would keep his word. He was utterly powerless, as the 
events of the last few moments would have shown him had he 
not known it before. The most powerful, the noblest confeder¬ 
acy fell away impotently before an invisible yet well-understood 
power, and a sense, of vague irresistible force oppressed him, 
and showed him the uselessness of resistance. 

Nevertheless he requested the loan of Don Agostino’s 
carriage that he might go at once to the General of the Society. 
He was shown at once into a small cabinet, where he was kept 
waiting a few moments, the General in fact being engaged at 
that moment in listening to a detailed account of the meeting, 
and of the speeches delivered at it. He however entered the 
room in a few minutes, and the two men saluted each other 
with the appearance of cordial friendship. Inglesant had not 
changed his dress, and the General ran his eyes over it with 
somewhat of an amused expression, doubtless comparing the 
account he had just received with the appearance of his visitor, 
the purpose of which he was fully alive to. 

Inglesant began the conversation. 

“Your reverence is probably acquainted already with the 
meeting in the Piazza Colonna, and with its objects and results. 
I, however, have come to relate what passed as far as you may 
be disposed to listen, and to give any information, in a perfectly 
open and sincere manner, which you may wish to receive. In 
return for this I wish to ask your reverence two or three 
questions which I hope will not be unpleasant, and which you 
will of course answer or not as it pleases you.” 

“ As I understand the meeting. Signore Cavaliere,” said the 
General with a slight smile, “it rejected your mediation, in 


420 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap. XXXVII. 


spite of the elaborate care with which the proposal was brought 
before it, a care extending to the minutest particulars, and the 
chastened eloquence and perfect style in which it was offered.” 

This sarcasm fell comparatively hariiilessly upon Inglesant, 
preoccupied as his thouglits were. He therefore bowed, saying,—- 

“ The meeting rejected my mediation, or rather it thought 
that no mediation was necessary, and trusted itself implicitly to 
the fatherly care of the Society of Jesus.” 

“What does the meeting representing this new heresy 
demand ? ” 

“ It demands nothing but the deliverance of its friends now 
in prison.” 

“ And nothing else 

“Nothing else from the meeting. I am here to demand 
something else.” 

“On your own behalf alone?” 

“On my own lesponsibility solely; but if my request is 
granted, many will be benefited 1 '^ my workl” 

“ Have you no abettors ? You came here in Don Agostino’s 
coach.” 

“ I am Don Agostino’s dear and intimate friend, and it is 
not much that he should lend me his coach. I have many 
friends in Rome.” 

“I know it,” said the Jesuit cordially, “and among them 
the Order of Jesus is not the least sincere.” 

Inglesant bowed, and there was a shght pause. Then the 
General said,— 

“ What do you demand ?” 

“ I demand spiritual freedom—the freedom of silence.” 

“ Freedom will be abused.” 

“Not by me nor by my friends. We pledge ourselves to 
unbroken silence. All we demand is freedom to worship God 
in private as He Himself shall lead us. We ask for no change 
in public doctrine. We seek no proselytes. In fact, we confine 
ourselves to one desire, the sacrament without confession.” 

The Jesuit made no reply, but continued to look fixedly 
into Inglesant’s face. 

“ It seems to me. Father,” Inglesant went on, with a touch 
of bitterness in his tone, “ that the Society is changing its policy, 
or rather that it has a diffeient policy for different classes of 
men. So far as I have known it, it has piu'sued a coiu’se of 


CHAP. XXXVII.] 


A ROMANCE. 


421 


compromise with all men, and especially with the weak and frail. 
.It has always appeared to me a trait much to be admired, that 
in which it is likest to the divine charity itself; but the world 
has been very severe upon it. And when the world says, ‘ You 
have pandered to vice in every form; you have rendered the 
ooufessioual easy of approach, and the path of penitence smooth 
to the impenitent; you have been lenient, nay more than lenient, 
to the loose liver, to the adulterers and menslayers,—surely you 
might be mild to the devout; simely you might extend a little 
of this infinite pity to the submissive and obedient, to the pure 
in life and soul who seek after God; ‘ Difficile est satiram non 
scribere. Nam quis iniquae tarn patiens urbis, tarn ferreus, ut 
teneat se.” If the world says this, what am I to answer? For, 
if it be so necessary to confine the soid to narrow dogmas lest 
she go astray, it must be also necessary to deal freely and 
sharply with these sins of the flesh, lest they bring men to sen- 
suahty and to hell. By thus acting, as it seems to me, and not 
by making the righteous sad, you would follow the teaching of 
tlipse beautiful -words of one of your Fathers, who says, ‘ that 
the main design of our Society is to endeavour the establishment 
of virtue, to carry on the war against vice, and to cultivate an 
infinite number of souls.’” 

“You are a bold man, Signore Cavaliere. For far less 
words than you have spoken men have grown old in the 
dungeons of Saint Angelo, where the light of day never comes.” 

Inglesant, who rather wished to be imprisoned, and flattered 
himself that he should soon be released, was not alarmed at this 
menace, and remained silent. 

A pause ensued, during which something like this ran 
through the Jesuit’s mind :— 

“Shall I have this man arrested at once, or wait? He 
came to us well recommended—the favourite pupil of an im¬ 
portant member of the Society, who assured us that he was an 
instrument perfectly trained, ready at all points for use, and of 
a temper and spirit far above the average, not to be lost to the 
Order on any account. He has proved all that was said of him, 
and much more. The Papal throne itself is under obligation to 
him. But do we want such a man so much ? I have scores 
of agents, of instruments ready to my hand, with whom I need 
use no caution—no finesse; why waste any on owe, however 
highly finished and trained ? But. on the other hand, I speak 


422 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[CflAP. XXXVIII. 


this in Rome, where everything is our own, and where the sense 
of power may have unfitted me from properly understanding 
this man’s value. In the rough regions in partihus, such a tool 
as this, fine and tnie as steel, tried in the fire as steel, doubtless 
is not lightly to be thrown away; at all events, nothing is to 
be done hastily. So long as he is in Rome he is safe, and may 
be clapped up at any moment. I almost wish he would leave, 
and go back to his teacher.” 

All this occupied but a few seconds, and, as the Jesuit made 
no answer, Inglesant, who scarcely expected any definite rejily, 
took his leave. To his surprise, however, the General insisted 
on accompanying him to his coach. They crossed the courtyard 
to where the equipage of Don Agostino stood in the street. In 
the excited imagination of Rome at that moment, the sight of 
Don Agostino’s carriage before the Jesuits’ College had attracted 
a crowd. When Inglesant appeared, accompanied by the General, 
the excitement became intense. As they reached the carriage 
door, Inglesant knelt upon the pavement, and requested the 
Jesuit’s blessing; the foremost of the crowd, impressed by this 
action, knelt too. Inglesant rose, entered the carriage, and was 
driven off; and two different rumoiu's spread through Rome— 
one, that the Society had come to terms with the Quietists 
through the mediation of the Cavaliere; the other, that the 
Cavaliere di San Georgio had betrayed the Quietists, and made 
his peace with the Order; and this last report received the 
greatest amount of credit. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

The Inquisitors and the Jesuits continued to adopt a policy of 
great leniency to those who were in prison. The majority, after 
one examination, were released, merely going through the form 
of abjuring heresies and errors of which they had never dreamed. 
Owing to this politic course of action, assisted by the dislike 
and contempt which the people felt towards the then Pope, 
wlio was supposed to be a favourer of Molinos, and of whose 
dull reign the Romans were weary, a great change took place 
in the opinions of the populace. The credit of the Jesuits rose 
exceedingly, and they became celebrated for their excessive 


CHAP. XXXVIII.] A ROMANCR 423 

mildness, who before had been blamed for their rigour. To 
such an extent did they gain in popular estimation, that the 
chiefs of the defeated party were unable to keep back great 
numbers of the followers of Molinos from coming in to the 
Inquisitors every day, to accuse themselves of heresy, and to 
offer themselves to penance. These being very gently treated, 
and dismissed in peace, testified everywhere to the clemency of 
the Holy Office and of the Jesuits. The excitement, which 
before had set in one direction, was now turned witli equal 
impetuosity in another; and many who had before, doubtless 
in perfect sincerity, found—or fancied they found—spiritual 
satisfaction in the “method of contenqdation,” now discovered 
an equal benefit in an excessive orthodoxy. The Quietist 
party was utterly crushed, and put to ignominious silence; and 
Molinos himself became an object of hatred and contempt; 
while, all the time, with extraordinary inconsistency, it was 
publicly reported that the reason of this surprising clemency 
was the great support which his doctrine received from the 
mystical Divinity, which had been authorized by so many 
canonizations, and approved by so many Councils and Fathers 
of the Church. 

The leaders of the defeated party lived as in a desert. 
Their saloons, which only a few days before had been crowded, 
were now empty, and Cardinal Petrucci himself was visited by 
no one; while the Jesuits were everywhere received with 
enthusiasm, so true to the character that the Satirist gave 
fifteen hundred years before did the Eoman pojmlace remain— 

“ Sequitur fortunam, ut semper, et odit 
“Damnatos.” 

Some slight portion of this popular applause fell to Ingle- 
sanPs lot, whichever report was believed—whether as the agent 
of the Society he had betrayed his friends, or had used his 
influence to procure this unexpected policy of mercy—either 
supposition procured him notoriety and even approbation. It 
now only remained to watch the fate of Molinos, and the 
inmates of Don Agostino’s palace waited in silence the policy 
of their triumphant opponents. The Jesuits began by circulat¬ 
ing reports of his hypocrisy and lewd course of life—facts of 
which they said they had convincing evidence. They said that 
these scandals had been proved before the Pope, who then, and 


424 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap, xxxviil 


not till then, had renounced his cause. The Romans replied to 
this story that they believed it, for the Pope was a good judge 
of such matters, but none at all of the questions of theology on 
which the quarrel had previously turned. There was not at the 
time, and there never has been since, the slightest evidence 
offered publicly that these stories had the least foundation; but 
they amply served their tium, insomuch that when Molinos was 
brought out to the Minerva on the day of his condemnation, he 
was saluted by the people with cries of “ Fire ! Fire !” and, but 
that his coach was resolutely defended by the Sbirri and guards, 
he woidd have been massacred by the furious mob. 

When the morning rose upon the day on which his con- 
demnatiop was to take place, the tribunal of the Minerva, and 
all the avenues and corridors leading to it, were thronged with 
an excited crowd. For days before, all the efforts both of 
money and favour had been exerted to procure good places in 
the court itself, and those who were unable to gain these 
coveted seats lined the corridors and staircases, while the 
populace outside thronged the streets leading from the prison of 
the Inquisition. The windows and house-tops were crowded; 
scarcely an inhabitant of Rome but was to be found somewhere 
on the line of route; the rest of the city was a desert. 

The vine-clad wastes of the Aventine, the green expanse of 
the Campo Vaccino, and the leafy walls of the Colosseum and 
of the arches, were lying under the morning sunlight, calm and 
quiet as in the midst of a happy and peacefid world. As 
Inglesant came across from the lonely convent where he still 
occasionally lodged, and turned out of the square of the Ara 
Coeli, the silent tenantless houses and palaces looked down with 
dim eyes like a city of the dead; and as he came into the Via 
del Gesu the distant hum and murmur of the crowd first broke 
upon his ear. Here and. there a belated spectator like himself 
turned out of some bye-street or doorway, and hastened towards 
the Piazza della Minerva. 

Inglesant turned off by a side street, and, following the 
narrow winding 'lanes with which he was well acquainted, came 
out into the Via di Coronari at some midway distance between 
the prison of the Inquisition and the Minerva. He was just 
in time. As he stationed himself against the wall of the 
Church of St. Maria de Anima and the German Hospital, he 
knew, by the excitement and frantic cries of the crowd, that 


A ROJVIANCE. 


425 


CHAP. XXXVIII.] 

Molinos was not far off. He was brought along the street in 
a' lai^e coach Avith glass windows, a Dominican friar seated at 
his side. On each side of the carriage and at the horses’ heads 
the Sbirri and Swiss guards exerted themselves manfully to keep 
back the people and to clear the way. A deafening shout and 
cry rose unceasingly, and every few moments the crowd, pressing 
upon the carriage and the guards, caused them to come to a 
dead stop. Clinging to the horses’ heads, to the carriage itself, 
to the halberds of the Swiss, climbing on the steps and on the 
back of the coach, had the crowd desired a rescue, Inglesant 
thought one bold and decided leader might have accomplished 
it in a few desperate moments. But the mob desired nothing 
less. This man—who but a few weeks ago had been followed 
by admiring crowds, Avho had been idolized in courtly saloons, 
whose steps and walks had been watched Avith the tender and 
holy devotion with Avhich a ]ieopIe watches the man whose life 
it takes to be hid in God; whom loving modest women had 
pointed out to their children as the holy priest whom they must 
love and remember all their lives; Avhom passionate women, on 
whose souls the light of God had broken, had followed trembling, 
that they might throAV themselves at his feet, and, clinging to 
his goAvn, hear the Avords of gospel from his lips; to Avhom 
desperate men had listened Avdiom no other voice had ever 
moved ;—this man Avas now the execration of the mob of Rome. 
Amidst the roar and din around no AA^ord was distinguishable 
but that terrible one of “Fire!” that pointed to a heretic’s 
death at the stake; and, but for the determined resistance of 
the guards, Molinos would have been dragged from the coach 
and butchered in the streets. 

When the carriage arrh'-ed opposite the spot upon which 
Inglesant had posted himself, he could see Molinos’s face as he 
sat in the coach. He Avas carefully dressed in his priestly habit, 
and looked about him wdth a cheerful serene countenance. “ He 
looks well,” said a man, not far from Inglesant, who had been 
very bitter against the prisoner; “ the secret of his success is 
not far to seek, for his face possesses all the charms that are 
able to captivate, especially the fair sex.” 

When the coach was close to Inglesant the crowd made 
another and most determined attack, and the horses came to 
a stand. The cries of “Fire! Fire!” rose louder and more 
fiercely, and the guards w’ere for a moment beaten from one of 


426 


JOHN INGLESANT j 


[chap. XXXVIII. 


the doors. It S 3 emed that nothing could prevent the people 
from dragging tlieir victim into the street; Inglesant felt his 
blood turn cold, fully expecting to see the massacre performed 
before his eyes; but before the people could open the door, 
which seemed fastened on the inside, the guard rallied, and by 
the free use of their halberds and short swords recovered the 
coach, and drove back the mob. 

Through all this scene Molinos had preseiwed his perfectly 
unconcerned expression, and his eyes, wandering calmly over 
the people, at last rested upon the spot where Inglesant stood. 
Whether he recognized him or not Inglesant did not know, for 
he involuntarily drew back and shrank from his eye. He learned 
afterwards that Molinos did recognize him, and also noticed his 
recoil. “ He fears I should compromise him with the fmious 
crowd,” he thought; “he need not fear.” 

Inglesant’s movement was caused, however, by a thought 
very different from this one, which indeed never occurred to 
him. He w^as ashamed to meet Molinos’s eye. In the daylight 
and sunshine they had walked together, but when the trial came, 
the one was taken, and all the rest escaped. It was impossible 
but that some at least of the fortunate many should feel some 
pangs of uneasiness and doubt. Inglesant especially, the agent 
and confidant of the Jesuits, was open to such thoughts, and 
before the single-hearted uncomjiromising priest and confessor 
could not but feel in some sort condemned. The carriage passed 
on amid the unabated fury of the people, and, turning aside 
down a narrow winding lane, he entered the Dominicans’ Church, 
to the reserved part of which he had a ticket of admission, to 
be ready for the final scene. 

Molinos was taken to one of the corridors of the Minerva, 
where he stood for some time looking about him very calmly, 
and returning all the salutes which were made him by those 
who had formerly been of his acquaintance. To all inquiries 
he retui-ned but one answer; that they saw a man who was 
defamed, but who was penitent (infamato ma penitente). After 
he had stood here some time he was conducted into a small 
apartment, where a sum]jtuous repast was spread before him, 
and he was invited to partake as of his last luxurious indulgence 
before being shut up in a little cell for life. A strange banquet! 
and a strange taste such delicacies must have to a man at such 
a time. 


CHAP, XXXVIII,] 


A ro:mance. 


427 


After dinner he was carried into the Church, as in a 
triumph, in an ojoen chair upon the shoulders of the Sbirri. 
The tapers upon the altar shrines showed more clearly than 
did the dim and sober daylight that penetrated beneath the 
darkened roofs the three mystic aisles of the strange Church, 
which were filled with a brilliant company of cardinals, nobles, 
innumerable ladies, gentlemen of every rank, ecclesiastics with¬ 
out end. The dark marble walls, the sumptuous crowd, the 
rich colours of the stained glass, gave a kind of lurid splendour 
to the scene; while on every side the sculptured forms upon 
the monuments, with stolid changeless features, stood out pale 
amidst the surrounding gloom; and here and there, where free 
space was kept, the polished marble floor reflected the sombre 
brilliancy of the whole. 

As Molinos was brought up to his place he made a low and 
devout reverence to the Cardinals, and his manner was perfectly 
possessed and without a show of fear or shame. He was made 
to stand up before the altar, a chain was bound round him and 
fastened to his wrists, and a wax taper was placed in his hand. 
Then with a loud voice a friar read his Process, so as to be 
heard by all in the Church; and as some of the articles 
were read, there were loud cries from the reverend and polite 
assembly of “ Fire ! Fire !” 

In a few moments the sight was over, and Molinos was led 
back to the street, to be placed this time in a close carriage, 
and taken back to the prison, where his cell was prepared. As 
Inglesant stepped back into the aisle of the Church he felt 
some one pull him by his Benedictine gown, and, turning 
round, he saw a lady in a velvet masque. She appeared ex¬ 
cited, and, as far as he could see, was weeping, and her voice, 
which he thought he recognized, was broken and indistinct. 

“ Cavaliere,” she said, “he will stop a moment in the vesti¬ 
bule before they put him in the coach. I want him to have 
this—he must have it—it will be a relief and consolation to 
him unspeakable. They will stop all of us, and will let no one 
come to him; but they will let you. You are a Jesuit, and 
their friend. For the love of Gesu, Cavaliere, do him and 
me and all of us this favour. He will bless you and pray 
for you. He will intercede for you. For the love of God, 
Cavaliere ! ” 

She was pleading with such eager tearfulness and such 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


428 


[chap. XXXVIII. 


liiirried speech and gesture, that he could not doubt her truth, 
yet he paused a moment. 

“Surely I know your voice V he said. 

“Ah! you know me/’ replied the masque, “but that is of 
no consequence. Another moment, and it will be too late. 
Cavaliere ! for the love of Gesu !” 

Inglesant took the small paper packet, which seemed to 
contain a casket, and went down the fast emptying Church. 
As he reached the entrance he turned and looked back for the 
velvet masque, but she was nowhere to be seen. His mind 
was full of suspicion, yet he was not unwilling to fulfil his 
mission. He should, at any rate, speak to Molinos, and per¬ 
haps grasp his hand. 

In the vestibule Molinos stood alone, a circle being kept 
at some distance round him by the guard. His manner was 
unchanged and calm. The select crowd stood around gazing 
at him with eager curiosity; outside might be heard again 
the shouting of the mob, ami the cry of “Fire!” Inglesant 
advanced towards the Captain of the Sbirri; but to his sur¬ 
prise, before he could speak, the latter made a sign, and the 
guards fell back to let him pass. A murmur ran through the 
crowd, and every one pressed forward with intense eagerness. 
Molinos looked up, and an expression of grateful pleasure lighted 
up his face as he extended his hand. Inglesant grasped it 
with emotion, and looking him in the face, said,— 

“Adieu, Father; you are more to be envied than we. You 
are clothed in the heavenly garment and sit down at the supper 
of the King; we wander in the outer darkness, with an aching 
conscience that cannot rest.” 

The expression of the other’s face was compassionate and 
beautiful, and he said,— 

“Adieu, Cavaliere; we shall meet again one day, when the 
veil shall be taken from the face of God, and we shall see Him 
as He is.” 

As Inglesant grasped his hand he slipped the casket into 
it, and as he did so dropped on one knee. The hand of the 
priest rested on his head for a moment, and in the next he had 
risen and stepped back, and the guards closed in for the last 
time round Molinos, and the crowd pressed after, following 
them to the coach. 

When the carriage had driven off, and the crowd somewhat 


CHAP. xxxviiT.] A ROMANCE. 429 

dispersed, Inglesant came down the steps, and was turning to 
the right into the Corso when he was surprised to see that the 
Captain of the Sbirri had not followed his prisoner, but was 
standing on the causeway with two or three of his men, near 
a plain carriage which was waiting. As Inglesant came up he 
turned to him, and said politely,— 

“ Pardon, Signore Cavaliere, I .^must ask you to come with 
me. You have conveyed a packet to a condemned prisoner— 
a grave offence—a packet which contains poison. You will 
come quietly, no doubt.” 

“ I will come quietly, certainly,” said Inglesant. “ Where 
are we going ? to the Inquisition ?” 

“No, no,” said the other, as he followed the new prisoner 
into the coach; “ yours is a civil offence; we are going to the 
St. Angelo.” 

“ The General must have a taste for theatricals,” thought 
Inglesant as the coach rolled off, “or he never could have 
planned such a melodrama.” 

On their arrival at the Castle he was conducted into a good 
room, not in the tower, which commanded an extensive view 
of St. Peter’s. Great liberty was allowed him, everything he 
liked to pay for was procured for him, and at certain hours he 
was allowed to walk on the glacis and fortifications. 

The second day of his confinement was drawing to a close 
when he was visited by the Dominican who had attended 
Molinos. This monk, who seemed a superior person, had evi¬ 
dently been impressed by the conversation and character of his 
prisoner. After the first greeting he said,— 

“ That unhappy man requested me to bring you a message. 
It was to the effect that he had done you wrong. He saw you 
among the crowd a’s he was being brought to the Minerva, and 
noticed that you shrank back. He accused you in his mind of 
fearing to be compromised; he knows now that, on the contrary, 
you were watching for an opportunity to do him a service. It 
was but the thought of a moment, but he could not rest until 
he had acknowledged it, and begged your forgiveness. He bade 
me also to tell you that ‘ the bruised reed is not broken, nor 
the smoking flax quenched. ’ ” 

“ Where did you leave him V’ said Inglesant. 

“ At the door of his cell, which he calls his cabinet.” 

“ ‘ The smoking flax is not quenched,’” said Inglesant; “ J 


30 


JOHN INGLESANT ; 


tCIIAP. XXXVIII. 


lie^ir that one of his followers, a day or two ago, before the 
tribunal told the examiners to their faces that they ‘ were a 
company of imjiist, cruel, and heretical men, and that the 
measure which they dealt to others was the same that Christ 
Himself had received from His persecutors.’” 

“It is true,” suid the Dominican, “and it is true also that 
he is released; such, on the contrary, is the clemency of the 
Church.” 

After an imprisonment of about a fortnight, as Inglesant 
was one day taking his usual walk upon the fortifications, he 
was informed that the General of the Order was in his room, 
and desired to see him. He went to him immediately, and was 
received with great appearance of friendliness. 

“You will pardon my little plot, Cavaliere,” said the 
General, “especially as I gave orders that you should be made 
very comfortable here. I wished to see in what manner and 
how far you 'were our servant, and I have succeeded admirably. 
I find, as I imagined, that you are invaluable; but it must be 
on your own terms, and at your own time. You are faithful 
and unflinching when you have undertaken anything, but each 
mission must bo eiitered upon or renounced at your own pleasure. 
I hope you have not been nourishing bitter thoughts of me during 
your incarceration here.” 

“ Far from it,” replied Inglesant; “ I have nothing to 
complain of. I have all I want, and the view from the^e 
windows is, as you see, unrivalled in Rome. If it consists with 
your policy, I should take it as a great favour were you to 
inform me whether the velvet masque was a mere tool or not. 
I could have sworn that her accent and manner were those of a 
person speaking the truth ; still, w'hen the captain of the Sbirri 
made way for me I thought I was in the toils.” 

“ Your penetration did not err. The lady was the Countess 

of-. Siie conceived the idea of communicating with Mobiles 

herself, and confided it to her director—not in confession, observe. 
He consulted me, and we advised what took place; and, what 
may console you still farther, we did the lady no wrong. We 
have reason to know that, besides the poison, some writing was 
conveyed to Molinos together with the casket, l^y which he 
obtained information which he was very desirous of receiving. 
You will forgive me now, since your ‘amour propre’ is not 
touched, and your friend’s purpose is served.” 


CHAP. XXXVIII.] 


A ROMANCE. 


431 


There was a pause, after which tlie General said,— 

“ You have deserved well of the Order—few better; and 
whatever their enemies may say, the Companions of Jesus are 
not uiiniiiidful of their children, nor ungrateful, unless the 
highest necessities of the general good require it. You look 
upon the prosecution of Molinos as an act of intolerable tyranny, 
and you are yourself eager to enter upon a crusade on behalf of 
religious freedom and of the rights of private devotion and 
judgment. You are ready to engage almost single-handed 
against the whole strength of the Society of Jesus, of the 
Curia, and of the existing powers. I say nothing of the 
Quixotic nature of the enterprise; that would not deter you. 
Nor of its utter hopelessness; how hopeless you may judge 
from the sudden collapse of the party of Molinos—a party so 
favoured in high places, so fashionable, patronized, as has been 
said, even by the Pope himself. Y"ou may also judge of this 
from the fact, of which you are probably aware, that every 
detail of your late meeting was communicated to us by the 
President of that meeting, and by many of those who attended 
it. But in speaking of these matters to you, whose welfare I 
sincerely seek, I address myself to another argument w^hich I 
imagine wall have more weight. You have only considered this 
coveted spiritual freedom as the right of the favoured few, of 
the educated and refined. You have no desire and no intention 
that it should be extended to the populace. But you do not 
consider, as those who have the guidance of the Church polity 
are bound to consider, that to grant it to the one and deny it 
to the other is impossible; that these principles are sure to 
spread ; that in England and in other countries where they 
have spread they have been the occasion of incalculable mis¬ 
chiefs. Y^ou are standing at this moment, thanks chiefly to the 
nurture and clemency of the much-abused Society of Jesus, at a 
point Avhere you may choose one of tw'o roads, which, joining 
here, will never meet again. The question is betw^een individual 
license and obedience to authority; and upon the choice, though 
you may not think it, depends the very existence of Christianity 
in the world. Betw^een unquestioning obedience to authority 
and absolute unbelief there is not a single permanent resting- 
place, though many temporary halts may be made. You will 
scarcely dispute this when you remember that every heretical 
sect admits it. They only differ as to what the authority is to 


432 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap. XXXVII r. 


which obedience is due. We, in Rome at least, cannot be 
expected to allow any authority save that of the Catholic 
Church, and indeed what other can you place instead of it— 
a Book^ Do you think that those who have entered upon 
the path of inquiry will long submit to be fettered by the 
pages of dead languages 1 You know more of this probably 
than I do, from your acquaintance with the sceptics of other 
lands.” 

He paused as if waiting for a reply, but Inglesant did not 
speak; perhaps the logic of the Jesuit seemed to him unanswer¬ 
able—especially in the St. Angelo at Rome. 

After a few seconds the latter went on,— 

“ Ah ! I fear you still bear me some malice. If so, I regret 
it very much. As I said before, you have no truer friend in 
Rome than the Order and its unworthy General. I am con¬ 
vinced, both by my own experience and by the reports of others, 
that you are an invaluable friend and agent of the Society 
in countries where men like you, gentlemen of honour, bold, 
unflinching, and of spotless name, are w^anted at every turn,— 
men who have the confidence of both parties, of enemies as 
well as friends. But long ere this you will have seen that 
here in Rome we do things differently; here we strike openly 
and at once, and we require agents of a far lower type, not so 
much agents, indeed, as hamme?-s ready to our hand. Your 
refined nature is altogether out of place. As a friend I recom¬ 
mend your return to England. Father St. Clare is there, and 
no doubt requires you, and I am very certain that the climate 
of Rome will not suit your health. You have passed some 
years very pleasantly in Italy, as I believe, in spite of your 
share in those great sorrows to which we all are heir; and 
though I am grieved to separate you from your friends, the 
noblest in Rome, yet it is better that you should be parted in 
this manner than by sharper and more sudden means. Every 
facility shall be given you for transferring your property to 
England, and I hope you wdll take with you no unpleasant 
recollections of this city and of the poor Fathers of Jesus, who 
wisli you well.” 

He pronounced these last words with so much feeling that 
Inglesant could only reply,— 

“ I have nothing to say of the Society but what is good. 
It has ever been most tender and parental to me. I shall go 


CHAP. XXXIX.] 


A ROMANCE. 


433 


away with nothing but sadness and affection in my heart; with 
nothing but gratitude towards you, Father, with notliing but 
reverence towards this city—the mother of the World.” 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 


For a long time nothing was found among the papers from 
which these memoirs have been compiled relative to Mr. Ingle- 
sant’s life subsequent to his return to England; but at last the 
following imperfect letter was found, which is here given as 
containing all the information on the subject which at present 
is known to exist. 

The date, with the first part of the letter, is torn off. The 
first perfect line is given. The spelling has been modernized 
throughout. The superscription is as follows :— 


Mr. Anthony Paschall, 

Physician, 

London. • 


from his friend, 

Mr. Valentine Lee, 

Chirurgeon, 

Of Reading. 


From a certain tone in parts of the letter it would seem 
that the writer was one of those wdio gave cause for the accusa¬ 
tion of scepticism brought in those days against the medical 
profession generally. 

***** that vine, laden with grapes worked in 
gold and precious stones, after the manner of Phrygian work, 
which, according to Josephus, Tacitus, and other writers, 
adorned the Temple at Jerusalem, and was seen of many when 
that Temple was destroyed; a manifest continuance of the old 
Eastern worship of Bacchus, so dear to the human frailty. As 
says the poet Anacreon, “ Make me, good VcUoan, a deep bowl, 
and carve on it neither Charles’s Wain, nor the sad Orion, but 
carve me out a vine with its swelling grapes, and Cupid, Bacchus, 
and Bathillus pressing them together.” For it is a gallant 
philosophy, and the deepest wisdom, which, under the shadow 


[chap. XXXIX. 


434 JOHN INGLESANT ; 

of talismans and austere emblems, wears the colours of enjoy¬ 
ment and of life. 

Methinks if the Puritans of the last age had known that 
the same word in Latin means both worship and the culture of 
polite life, they would not have condemned both themselves 
and us to so many years of shadowy gloom and of a morose 
antipathy to all delight. And though they will perchance 
retort upon me that the same word in the Greek meaneth both 
worship and bondage, yet I shall reply that it was a service of 
love and j^leasure—a service in which all the beauties of earth 
were called upon to aid, and in which the Deity was best 
pleased by the happiness of His creatures, whose every faculty 
of delight had been fully husbanded and trained. In these last 
happy days, since his gracious Majesty’s return, we have seen a 
restoration of a cheerful gaiety, and adorning of men’s lives, 
when painting and poetry, and, beyond all, music, have smoothed 
the rough ways and softened the hard manners of men. 

I came to Oxford, travelling in the Flying Coach with a 
Quaker who inveighed gveatly against the iniquity of the age. 
At Oxford I saw more than I have space to tell you of; amongst 
others, Francis Tatton, who, you will recollect, left his religion 
since the King’s return, and sheltered himself amongst the 
Jesuits. He was but lately come to Oxford, and lodged at 
Francis Alder’s against the Fleur-de-lis. I dined with him 
there along with some others, and it being a Friday, they had 
a good fish dinner with white wine. Among the guests was 
one Father Lovel, a Jesuit. He has lived in Oxford many 
years to supply service for the Catholics, so bold and free are 
the Papists now. 

I conversed with another of the guests, a physician, who 
after dinner took me to his house in Bear Lane, and showed 
me his 'study, in a pleasant room to the south, overlooking some 
of Christ CliiHch gardens. Here he began to complain of the 
Royal Society, and the Viiduosi, and I soon saw that he was a 
follower of Dr. Gideon Harvey and Mr. Stubbes. “ The country 
owes much,” he said, “to such men as Burleigh, Walsingham, 
Jewel, Abbot, Usher, Casaubon; but if this new-fangled philo¬ 
sophy and mechanical education is to bear the bell, I foresee 
that we shall look in vain in England for such men again. In 
these deep and subtle inquiries into natural philosophy and the 
intricate mechanisms by Avhich this w'orld is said to be governed, 


CHAP. XXXIX.] 


A ROMANCE. 


435 


neither physic will be unconcerned nor will reliction remain 
unsliaken amidst the writings of these "Virtuosi. That art of 
reasoning by which the prudent are discriminated from fools, 
which methodizes and facilitates our discoimse, which informs 
us of the validity of consequences and the probability of argu¬ 
ments—that art wdiich gives life to solid eloquence, and which 
renders statesmen, divines, physicians, and lawyers accomplished 
—how is this cried down and vilified by the ignoramuses of 
these days! ” 

I pleased myself with inspecting this man’s books, with 
which his study was w^ell stored, and with the view from his 
window; but I let his tongue run on uncontradicted, seeing 
that he was of the old Protestant and scholastic learning, which 
is never open to let in new light. He entertained me, besides, 
with a long discourse to prove that Geber the chemist was not 
an Indian King, and informed me with great glee that the 
Itoyal Society, among other new-fangled propositions, had con¬ 
ceived the idea of working silk into hats, which project, though 
the hatters laughed at it, yet to satisfy them trial was made, and 
for twenty shillings they had a hat made, but it proved so bad 
that any one might have bought a better one for eighteenpence. 

He was entering upon a long argument against Descartes, 
to refute whom he was obliged to contradict much that he had 
said before, but at this time I excused myself and left him. 

When I came out from tliis man’s house the college bells 
were going for Chapel, as they used to do in the old time; 
methought it was the prettiest music I had heard for many a 
day. I went to see an old man I remembered in Jesus Lane. 
I found him in the same little house, dressed in his gown tied 
round the middle, the sleeves pinned behind, and his dudgeon 
•with a knife and bodkin; it was the fashion for grave people 
to wear such gowns in the latter end of Queen Elizabeth’s days. 
He says he is 104. When I was a boy at Oxon I used to be 
always inquiring of him of the old time, the rood lofts, the 
ceremonies in the College Chapels; and his talk is still of Queen 
Bess her days, and of the old people who remembered the liost 
and the wafer bread and the roods in the Churches. In my 
time, at Oxford, crucifixes were common in the glass in the 
study window’s, and in the chamber wiiidow^s jnctures of saints. 
This w^as “before the wars.” What a different world it was 
before the wars ! What strange old-world customs and thoughts 


436 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap. XXXIX. 


and stories vanished like phantoms when the war tnimpets 
sounded, and great houses and proud names, and dominions and 
manors, and stately woods, crumbled into dust, and every man 
did as seemed good to himself, and thought as he liked. 

On the Sunday I went to St. Mary’s, and heard a preacher 
and herbalist, who spoke of the virtues of plants and of the 
Christian life in one breath. He told us that Homer writ sub¬ 
limely and called them 6^e(ov, the hands of the Gods, and 

that we ought to reach to them religiously with praise and 
thanksgiving. “ God Almighty,” he said, “ hath furnished us 
with plants to cure us within a few miles of our own abodes, 
and we know it not.” 

The next day I came to Worcester by the post, to the house 
of my old friend Nathaniel Tomkins, who is now one of the 
Prebends and Receptor. Pie lives in the close, or College 
Green, as they call it here. He comes of a family of musicians. 
His grandfather was chanter of the Choir of Gloucester; his 
father organist to the same Cathedral of Worcester, and one of 
Piis uncles organist of St. rauFs and gentleman of the Chapel 
Royal, and another, of whom more anon, gentleman of the 
Privy Chamber to His Majesty Charles the First, and well 
skilled in the practical part of music, and was happily trans¬ 
lated to the celestial choir of angels before the troubles. 

I was pleased to see the faithful city recovered from the 
ashes in which slie sat when I was here last, and the daily 
service of song again restored to the Cathedral Church, though 
the latter is much out of repair and dimmed as to its splendour. 
I like that religion the best which gives us sweet anthems and 
solemn organ music and lively parts of melody. 

I had not been here long when my friend the Receptor told 
me that if I should stay two or three days longer, I should 
hear as good a concert of violins as any in England, and also 
hear a gentleman lately come from Italy, whose skill as a lutinist 
and player on the violin had preceded him. When I asked for 
tlie name of this gentleman, he told me it was that Mr. John 
Inglesant who was servant to the late King, and of whom so 
much was spoken in the time of the Irish Rebellion. When I 
heard this I resolved to stay, as you may suppose, considering 
that we have more than once spoken together of tliis person ami 
desired to see him, esi)ecially since it had been reported that he 
was returned to England. 


CHAP. XXXIX.] 


A ROMANCE. 


437 


I therefore willingly promised to remain, and spent my time 
in practising on the violin, and in the city and cathedral. I 
walked upon the river bank, and up and down the fine broad 
streets leading from the bridge to the cathedral. From the 
gates of the chancel down the stone steps the strange light 
streamed on to the paved floor of the nave, chill and silent as 
the grave until the strains of the organs awoke. Mr. Tomkins 
told me that the loyal gentry of the surrounding counties had, 
during the usurpation, made it a point of honour to purchase 
and trade in Worcester, for the relief and encouragement of the 
citizens^ who were reduced to so low an ebb by the battle and 
taking of the city. 

Thursday was the day appointed for the music meeting, 
and on that day I accompanied Mr. Tomkins to the house of 
Mr. Barnabas Oley, another of the Prebends, who, you may 
remember, wrote a preface, a year or two ago, to Mr. Herbert’s 
‘‘ Country Parson.” He also lives in the College Green, and 
we found the company assembling in an oak parlour, which 
looked upon an orchard where the trees were in fidl blossom. 
There were present several of the clergy, and two or three 
physicians and other gentlemen, who practised upon the violin. 

As we entered the room, Mr. Oley was speaking of ]\Ir. 
Inglesant, who was expected to come presently with the 
Dean. 

“I remember him well,” he was saying, “when I was in 
poverty and sequestration in the late troubles. He was supposed 
to be in all the King’s secrets, and was constantly employed in 
private messages and errands. Some said that he was a con¬ 
cealed Papist, but I have known him to attend the Chimch 
service very devoutly. I recollect when I was in the garrison 
at Pontefract Castle, and used to preach there as long as it held 
out for his Blajesty, that this Mr. Inglesant suddenly appeared 
amongst us, though the leaguer was very close, and I know he 
attended service there once or twice. I was often at that time 
in want of bread, during my hidings and wanderings, and 
obliged to change my habit, and did constantly appear in a 
cloak and gray clothes. On one of these occasions, when I was 
in gi-eat distress and was diligently and particularly sought for by 
the rebels, who would willingly have gratified those that would 
have discovered me, I fell in with this Mr. Inglesant at an inn in 
Buckinghamshire. He was then in company with one whom I 


438 


JOHN INGLESANT 


[chap. XXXIX. 


knew to be a Pi pisli Priest, but they both exerted themselves 
very kindly in my behalf, and conducted me to the house of a 
Cathclic gentleman in those parts by whom I was entertained 
several days. Before this, I now i-ecollect, at the beginning of 
the wars, I met IMr. Inglesant at Oxford. I was in the shop 
of a bookseller named Forrest, against All Souls’ College. I 
remember that I took up Plato’s select dialogues, ‘De rebus 
divinis,’ in Greek and Latin, and excepted against some things 
as superfluous and cabalistical, and that Mr. Inglesant, who was 
then a very young man, defended the author in a way that 
showed his scholarship. It was summer weather and very 
warm, and the enemy’s cannon were playing upon the city as 
we could hear as we talked in the shop.” 

While Mr. Oley was thus recollecting his past troubles, Mr. 
Dean was announced, and entered the room accompanied by Mr. 
Inglesant and by a servant who carried their violins. You are, 
I know, acquainted with the Dean, who is also Bishop of St. 
David’s, and who, they say, will be Bishop of Worcester also 
before long, so I need not describe him. The first sight of Mr. 
Inglesant pleased me very much. He wore his own hair long, 
after the fashion of the last age, but in other respects he was 
dressed in the mode, in a French suit of black satin, with 
cravat and ruffles of Mechlin lace. His expression was lofty 
and abstracted, his features pale and somewhat thin, and his 
carriage gave me the idea of a man who had seen the world, 
and in whom few things were capable of exciting any extreme 
interest or attention. His eyes were light blue, of that peculiar 
shade which gives a dreamy and indifferent expression to the 
face. His manner was courteous and polite, almost to excess, 
yet he seemed to me to be a man who was habitually superior 
to his company, and I felt in his presence almost as I should 
do in that of a prince. Something of this doubtless was due to 
the sense I had of the part he had played in the great events of 
the late troubles, and of the nearness of intercoirrse and of the 
confidence he had enjoyed with his late Majesty of blessed 
memory. It was impossible not to look wdth interest upon a 
man who had been so familiar with the secret history of those 
times, and who had been taken into the confidence both of 
Papists and Churchmen. 

When he had been introduced to the company, Mr. Oley 
reminded him of the incidents he had been relating before his 


CHAP. XXXIX.] A ROMANCE. 439 

arrival. When he mentioned the meeting in the inn in Buck¬ 
inghamshire, Mr. Inglesant seemed affected. 

“ I remember it well,” he said. “ I was with Father St. 
Clare, whose deathbed I attended not two months after my 
return to England. Do you remember, Mr. Oley,” he went on 
to say, “ the sermons at St. Martin’s in Oxford, where Mr. Giles 
Widdowes preached? I remember seeing you there, sir, and 
indeed his high and loyal sermons were much frequented by the 
royal party and soldiers of the garrison; and I have heard that 
he was most benevolent to many of the most needy in their 
distress. I remember that poor Whitford played the organs 
there often, before he was killed in the trenches.” 

“Ah,” said Mr. Oley, “we have heard strange music in 
our day. I was in York when it was besieged by three very 
notable and great armies—the Scotch, the Northern under Lord 
Fairfax, and the Southern under the Earl- of Manchester and 
Oliver. At that time the service at the Cathedral every Sunday 
morning was attended by more than a thousand ladies, knights, 
and gentlemen, besides soldiers and citizens; when the booming 
of cannon broke in upon the singing of the psalms, and more 
than once a cannon bullet burst into the Minster amongst the 
people, like a furious fiend or evil spirit, yet no one hurt.” 

After some talk of this nature we settled ourselves to our 
music and to tune our instruments. Mr. Inglesant’s violin was 
inscribed “Jacobus Stainer in Absam prop4 (Enipontcm 1647 
CEnipons is the Latin name of Inspruck in Germany, the chief 
city of the Tyrol, where this maker lived. As soon as Mr. 
Inglesant drew his bow across the strings I was astonished at 
the full and piercing tone, which seemed to me to exceed even 
that of the Cremonas. 

We played a concert or two, with a double bass part for 
the violone, which had a noble effect; and Mr. Inglesant being 
pressed to oblige the company, played a descant upon a ground 
bass in the Italian manner. I should fail were I to attempt to 
describe to you what I felt during the performance of this piece. 
It seemed to me as though thoughts, which I had long sought 
and seemed ever and anon on the point of realizing, were at last 
given me, as I listened to chords of plaintive sweetness broken 
now and again by cruel and bitter discords—a theme into which 
were wrought street and tavern music and people’s songs, which 
lively airs and catches, upon the mere pressm'e of the string. 


440 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap. XXXIX. 


trembled into pathetic and melancholy cadences. In these 
dying falls and closes all the several parts were gathered up 
and brought together, yet so that what before was joy was now 
translated into sorrow, and the sorrowful transfigured to peace, 
as indeed the many shifting scenes of life vary upon the stage 
of men’s affairs. 

The concert being over, Mr. Dean informed us that it was 
his intention to attend the afternoon service in the Cathedral, 
and Mr. Inglesant accompanying him, the physicians departed 
to visit their patients, and my host and some of the clergy and 
myself went to the Cathedral also, entering rather late. 

After the service, in which was sung an anthem by Dr. 
Nathaniel Giles, Mr. Dean retired to the vestry, and Mr. 
Inglesant coming down the Church, I found myself close to him 
at the west door. We stopped opposite to the monument of 
Bishop Gauden, who is depicted in his effigy holding a book, 
presumably the “ Icon Badlike^'^ in his hand. I inquired of 
Mr. Inglesant what his opinions were concerning the authorship 
of that work, and finding that he was disposed to converse, we 
went down to the river side, the evening being remarkably fine, 
and crossing by the ferry, walked for some time in the chapter 
meadows upon the farther bank. The evening sun was setting 
towards the range of the Malvern Hills, and the towers and 
spires of the city were shining in its glow, and were reflected 
in the water at our feet. • 

I said to Mr. Inglesant that I was greatly interested in the 
events of the last age, in which he had been so trusted and 
prominent an actor, and that I hoped to learn from him many 
interesting particulars, but he informed me that he knew but 
little except what the world was already possessed of. He 
said that he very deeply regretted that, during the last two 
years of the life of the late King, he himself was a close 
prisoner in the Tower; and was therefore prevented from 
assisting in any way, or being useful to His Majesty. He said 
that there was something peculiarly affecting in the position of 
the King in those days, as he was isolated from his friends, 
and entirely dependent upon three or four faithful and sub¬ 
ordinate servants. He said that, since his return to England, 
he had made it his business to seek out several of these, and 
had received much interesting information from them, which, 
as he hoped it would soon be made public, he was not at 


CHAP. XXXIX.] 


A ROMANCE. 


441 


present at liberty to communicate. Mr. Inglesant, however, 
told me one incident relating to the last days of the King of so 
affecting a character, that, as it is too long to be repeated here, 
I shall hope tOi inform you of when we meet together. He 
said, moreover, that the fatal mistake the King made was con¬ 
senting to the death of Lord Strafford; that on many occasions 
he had yielded when he should have been firm; but that most 
of his misfortunes, such as reverses and indecisions in the field, 
were cau-ed by circumstances entirely beyond his control. 
There is nothing new in these opinions, but I give them just 
as Mr. Inglesant stated them, lest you should think I had 
not taken advantage of the opportunity presented to me. It 
appeared to me that he was not very willing to discourse upon 
these bygone matters of State intrigue. 

Seeing this I changed the topic, and said that as Mr. 
Inglesant had had much experience in the working of the 
Romish system, I should be glad to know his opinion of it, 
and wdiether he preferred it to that of the English Church. 
Here I found I was on different gi’ound. I saw at once beneath 
the veil of polite manner, which was this man’s second nature, 
that his whole life and being was in this question. 

“This is the supreme quarrel of all,” he said. “This is 
not a dispute between sects and kingdoms; it is a conflict within 
a man’s own nature—nay, between the noblest parts of man’s 
nature arrayed against each other. Qn the one side obedience 
and faith, on the other, freedom and the reason. What can 
come of such a conflict as this but throes and agony ? I was 
not brought up by the Papists in England, nor, indeed, did I 
receive my book learning from them. I was trained for a 
special purpose by one of the Jesuits, but the course he took 
with me was difterent from that which he would have taken 
with other pupils whom he did not design for such work. I 
derived my training from various sources, and especially, instead 
of Aristotle, and the schoolmen, I was fed upon Plato. The 
difference is immense. I was trained to obedience and devo¬ 
tion ; but the reason in my mind for this conduct was that 
obedience and devotion and gratitude were ideal virtues, not 
that they benefited the order to which I belonged, nor the 
world in which I lived. This I take to be the difference 
between the Papists and myself. The Jesuits do not like 
Plato, as lately they do not like Lord Bacon. Aristotle, as 


442 


JOHN INGLESANT: 


[chap, xxjcix. 


interpreted by the schoolmen, is more to their mind. According 
to their reading of Aristotle, all his Ethics are subordinated to 
an end, and in such a system they see a weapon which they 
can turn to their own purpose of maintaining dqg’ma, no matter 
at what sacrifice of the individual conscience or reason. This 
is what the Church of Rome has ever done. She has traded 
upon the highest instincts of humanity, upon its faith and love, 
its passionate remorse, its self-abegnation and denial, its imagi¬ 
nation and yearning after the unseen. It has based its system 
upon the profoimdest truths, and upon this platform it has 
raised a power which has, whether foreseen by its authors or 
not, played the part of human tyranny, greed, and cruelty. To 
support this system it has habitually set itself to suppress 
knowledge and freedom of thought, before thought had taught 
itself to grapple with religious subjects, because it foresaw that 
this would follow. It has, therefore, for the sake of preserving 
intact its dogma, risked the growtti and welfare of humanity, 
and has, in the eyes of all except those who value this dogma 
above all other things, constituted itself the enemy of the 
human race. I have perhaps occupied a position which enables 
me to judge somewhat advantageously between the Churches, 
and my earnest advice is this. You will do wrong—mankind 
will do wrong—if it allows to drop out of existence, merely 
because the position on which it stands seems to be illogical, 
an agency by which the devotional instincts of human nature 
are enabled to exist side by side with the rational. The 
English Church, as established by the law of England, offers 
the supernatural to all wdio choose to come. It is like the 
Divine Being Himself, whose sun shines alike on the evil and 
on the good. Upon the altars of the Church the divine 
presence hovers as surely, to those who believe it, as it does 
upon the splendid altars of Rome. Thanks to circumstances 
which the founders of our Church did not contemplate, the 
way is open; it is barred by no confession, no human priest. 
Shall we throw this aside 1 It has been won for us by the 
death and torture of men like ourselves in bodily frame, infi¬ 
nitely superior to some of us in self-denial and endurance. 
God knows—those who know my life know too well—that I 
am not worthy to be named with such men; nevertheless, 
though we cannot endure as they did—at lefist do not let us 
needlessly throw away what they have won. It is not even a 


CHAP. XXXIX.] 


A ROMANCE. 


443 


question of religious freedom only; it is a question of learning 
and culture in every form. I am not blind to the peculiar 
dangers that beset the English Church. I'fear that its position, 
standing, as it does, a mean between two extremes, will engender 
indifference and sloth; and that its freedom will prevent its 
preserving a discipline and organizing power, without which 
any community will suffer grievous damage; nevertheless, as 
a Chnrch it is unique: if suffered to drop out of existence, 
nothing like it can ever take its place.” 

“ The Church of England,” I said, seeing that Mr. Inglesant 
paused, “ is no doubt a compromise, and is powerless to exert 
its discipline, as the events of the late troubles have shown. 
It speaks with bated assurance, while the Church of Koine 
never falters in its utterance, and I confess seems to me to have 
a logical position. If there be absolute truth revealed, there 
must be an inspired exponent of it, else from age to age it 
could not get itself revealed to mankind.” 

“ This is the Papist argmnent,” said Mr. Inglesant; “ there 
is only one answer to it—Absolute truth is not revealed. There 
were certain dangers which Christianity could not, as it would 
seem, escape. As it brought down the sublimest teaching of 
Platonism to the humblest understanding, so it was compelled, 
by this very action, to reduce spiritual and abstract truth to 
hard and inadequate dogma. As it inculcated a sublime indif¬ 
ference to the things of this life, and a steadfast gaze upon the 
future, so, by this very means, it encouraged the gi’owth of a 
wild unreasoning superstition. It is easy to draw pictures of 
martyrs suffering the torture unmoved in the face of a glorious 
hereafter; but we must acknowledge, unless we choose to call 
these men absolute fiends, that it was these selfsame ideas of 
the future, and its relation to this life, that actuated their 
tormentors. If these things are true,—if the future of mankind 
is parcelled out between happiness and eternal torture,—then, 
to ensure the safety of mankind at large, the death and torment 
for a few moments of comparatively few need excite but little 
regret. From the instant that the founder of Christianity left 
the earth, perhaps even before, this ghastly spectre of supersti¬ 
tion ranged itself side by side with the advancing faith. It is 
confined to no Chiu’ch or sect; it exists in all. Faith in the 
noble, the unseen, the unselfish, by its very nature eiicourages 
this fatal growth; and it is nourished even by tho>se who have 


444 


JOHN INGLESANT; 


[chap. XXXIX* 


suflQcient strength to live above it; because, forsooth, its 
removal may be dangerous to the well-being of society at large, 
as though anything could be more fatal than falsehood against 
the Divine Truth.” 

“ But if absolute truth is not revealed,” I said, “ how can 
we know the truth at alU” 

“We cannot say how we know it,” replied Mr. Inglesant, 
“but this very ignorance proves that we can know. We are 
the creatures of this ignorance against which we rebel From 
the earliest dawn of existence we have known notliing. How 
then could we question for a moment ? What thought should 
we have other than this ignorance which we had imbibed from 
our growth, but for the existence of some divine principle, ‘ Fons 
veri lucidus,’ within us? The Founder of Christianity said, 
‘the kingdom of God is within you.’ We may not only know 
the truth, but we may live even in this life in the very house¬ 
hold and court of God. We are the creatures of birth, of 
ancestry, of circumstance; we are surrounded by law, physical 
and psychical, and the physical very often dominates and rules 
the soul. As the chemist, the navigator, the naturalist, attain 
their ends by means of law, which is beyond their power to 
alter, which they cannot change, but with which they can work 
in harmony, and by so doing produce definite results, so may 
we. AVe find ourselves immersed in physical and psychical 
laws, in accordance with which we act, or from which we 
diverge. AVhether we are free to act or not, we can at lease 
fancy that we resolve. Let us cheat ourselves, if it be a cheat, 
with this fancy, for we shall find that by so doing we actually 
attain the end we seek. Virtue, truth, love, are not mere 
names; they stand for actual qualities which are well known 
and recognized among men. These qualities are the elements 
of an ideal life, of that absolute and perfect life of which our 
highest culture can catch but a glimpse. As Mr. Hobbes has 
traced the individual man up to the perfect state, or Civitas, 
let us work still lower, and trace the individual man from small 
origins to the position he at present fills. We shall find that 
he has attained any position of vantage he may occupy by 
following the laws which our instinct and conscience tell us are 
Divine. Terror and superstition are the invariable enemies of 
culture and progress. They are used as rods and bogies to 
frighten the ignorant and the base, but they depress all man- 


CHAP. XXXIX.] 


A ROMANCE. 


445 


kind to the same level of abject slavery. The ways are dark 
and foul, and the gray years bring a mysterious future which 
we cannot see. We are like children, or men iu a tennis court, 
and before our conquest is half won the dim twilight conies and 
stops the game; nevertheless, let us keep our places, and above 
all things hold fast by the law of life we feel within. This 
was the method which Christ followed, and He won the world 
by placing Himself in harmony with that law of gradual develop¬ 
ment which the Divine Wisdom has planned. Let us follow in 
His steps and we shall attain to the ideal life; and, without 
waiting for our ‘mortal passage,’ tread the free and spacious 
streets of that Jerusalem which is above.” 

He spoke more to himself than to me. The sun, which 
was just setting behind the distant hills, shone with dazzling 
splendour for a moment upon the towers and spires of the city 
across the placid wafer. Behind this fair vision were dark rain 
clouds, before which gloomy background it stood in fairy 
radiance and light. For a moment it seeme*d a glorious city, 
bathed in life and hope, full of happy people who thronged its 
streets and bridge, and the margin of its gentle stream. But it 
was “ breve gaudium.” Then the sunset faded, and the ethereal 
vision vanished, and the landscape lay dark and chill. 

“The sun is set,” Mr. Inglesant said cheerfully, “but it 
will rise again. Let us go home.” 

I have writ much more largely in this letter than I intended, 
but I have been led onward by the interest which I deny not I 
feel in this man. When we meet I will tell you more. 

Your ever true friend, 

Valentine Lee. 


THE END. 










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